Anywhere You Go
by ArwenKalina
Summary: Raoul's safety is assured, but Christine cannot bring herself to break the promise she made to the Phantom. A different ending to the 2004 movie, based on ALW's version. Told from the POV of several different characters. COMPLETED.
1. Prologue: Betrayal

**Prologue: Betrayal**

The choice was made. She had made it in the moment when Raoul had gathered her into his arms in the chapel as she cried, when she had felt the safety, the security there within his embrace.

She knew that there would never be such security in the embrace of the Phantom, a man who had never even told her his name. A man who hid in darkness and shadows, who achieved his desires through terror and trickery, who knew no love nor felt any—except for her.

He loved her. Christine knew that, and yet, as she stood before the mirror in her new dressing room, she tried to forget it.

She looked around the spacious quarters, the elaborate room usually given to La Carlotta as the star soprano, and felt a mixture of guilt and pride.

Tonight, she was the leading lady. Not a chorus girl dragged in out of necessity, not a talent pushed to the background by the raucous demands of a temperamental diva. No. She was the star in an opera written for her voice, for her talents, written by a man obsessed with her to the point that she feared him and what he might do.

And for the first time in her brief career, she had not wanted it.

She had taken the role for Raoul, for the sake of their futures, of the life she believed that she wanted and the love that she believed was safest, purest, and best. With it came the posters blazoned with her face and name, the articles in _L'Epoche_, the spacious dressing room.

In order to gain recognition, opportunity, and a secure future with the man she loved, she need only do what she had desired to do all her life.

It was the thirty pieces of silver given to Judas, the apple offered to Eve, the reward for what she was to do tonight.

But as with all betrayals, there was a price for hers.

Since the afternoon in the chapel when she had made her decision, her sleep had been plagued by nightmares. In each and every one, she found herself on the stage, surrounded by the lush trappings of _Don Juan Triumphant_, looking up into Box 5, where the Phantom stood, surrounded by the gendarmes Raoul had hired. His eyes met hers, and he _knew_.

This nightmare was to come true.

He would know that she had betrayed him. He always knew. He knew her better than anyone else…even Raoul…

Raoul still thought her a child. He had replied condescendingly when she spoke of her tutor, had passed off the frightening encounters with the Phantom as mere nightmares, as though she didn't have the sense to determine what was reality and what was dreaming! She was still his Little Lotte, as much a child to him as she ever had been to her father.

And yet, Christine knew that there was truth in the way Raoul saw her. She was still very much a child, however adult she might feel. For the mere promise of safety, she was tonight to turn a blind eye to the suffering of another. She would deny her angel the only chance he would ever have for happiness, and send him away to be caged again, and…

She closed her eyes in pain. He would be hanged for the death of Joseph Buquet. She knew it, and yet, she also knew that she would walk out onto the stage tonight, sing the role of Aminta and let the gendarmes take him away.

And his blood would be forever on her hands.

She was about to betray a man who had given her everything and asked nothing in return.

The door opened and Madame Giry walked in. Christine knew that she could have had a maid to help her, but she preferred to have the ballet mistress help her with her laces. The older woman always had words of encouragement, but tonight, there would be words of support. Words to strengthen her resolve that she was doing the right thing.

And after, there would be words of comfort.

-

"Seal my fate tonight…"

He lifted the wig from its stand, discarded the white leather half-mask in place of a full, black mask.

"I hate to cut the fun short, but the joke's wearing thin."

He tightened the string that held the mask in place, lifted a candle from the stand.

This was it. This would be the end of all the games, the masquerades. He would take Christine tonight from that stage, and she would be his. That silly boy had no claim on her, none but the memory of happier days and childhood nostalgia.

He had Christine's soul. He held the key to what made her who she was, her love of music, the gifts instilled in her by her father and brought to fruition by a lonely tutor. She would not deny him again.

"Let the audience in…"

Doubtless the foolish Viscomte had some plan for his demise. But no one, not even Christine, suspected the Phantom's plan.

He looked down at the miniature stage, the small wax figures of the actors.

"Let my opera begin!"

A ring of flames erupted.

-

Christine turned to face Madame Giry.

"You look beautiful, my dear."

Christine touched her hair nervously, smoothed the fabric of her dress. "It is so scanty, Madame. I feel as though I have nothing on."

"I have seen much worse, believe me. You are quite modest."

"Raoul will not like it."

Madame Giry touched Christine's face comfortingly. "There may be many things tonight that Raoul will not like, and in your future too, perhaps. No matter how it has come about, this is your dream, and it is about to come true. You are the prima donna, a star in your own right. No matter what happens, do not let it be ruined."

Christine nodded.

And then, Madame Giry held out to her a single, long-stemmed red rose, a black silk ribbon tied around the stem.

Christine looked at the ballet mistress in confusion.

Madame Giry smiled. "He knows you will do well tonight."

-

Raoul took his seat in Box 5, a gendarme on either side of him. When the Phantom came to see Christine sing, it would be all over for him.

Then Raoul would take Christine away from here when the opera was finished, away from Paris, to the country, perhaps—the de Chagnys had a lovely chateau there—and the horrors that had plagued them for so long could simply slip away.

They would be happy together, as they had been as children. He would protect Christine, give her as long as she needed to recover.

He loved her. He knew that much. And he would do anything for her.

It never occurred to him that the Phantom felt the same.

-

Just over an hour later, Christine stood at the edge of the stage, her heart having ceased its wild racing. Nothing of any consequence had happened during the first act, or the majority of the second. Now they were fast approaching the end, and she had ceased to worry, and given herself up to her role.

Only once had it occurred to her how strange it was that Raoul sat in Box 5, and the Phantom had not come to hear her sing in his opera.

But there was no room for thoughts beyond her role. It was a difficult role, the music and lyrics much harder and very, very different from what she was accustomed to.

And the audience was not lapping it up as they so often did. In fact, some looked utterly repulsed by the content of the opera, which was hardly subtle. And, she thought wryly, far less so in the final piece.

And there was her cue, the booming laughter of Don Juan—although it was more of a loud cackle from Signor Piangi—as he slipped backstage.

She stepped out, her voice ascending beautifully to the notes that the Phantom had composed with her in mind.

"No thoughts within her head but thoughts of joy! No dreams within her heart but dreams of love!"

-

The Phantom straightened his mask, fixed his cape, and looked down at the body of Signor Piangi.

_Let the dream begin._

He stepped out of the curtain, for the first time in twenty-four years in front of living people who were not Madame Giry, Christine, or her ill-fated lover, the Viscomte de Chagny.

"Passarino! Go away, for the trap is set, and waits for its prey!"

The actor hesitated a moment, then slipped away, but the Phantom could not miss the confusion on his face. He winced. The difference in height, build, and voice had not occurred to him in all of his contriving, but he was here, and would simply have to make the best of it. There was no going back now.

"You have come here, in pursuit of your deepest urge—in pursuit of that wish which 'til now has been silent…silent…I have brought you, that our passions may fuse and merge. In your mind you've already succumbed to me, dropped all defenses, completely succumbed to me. Now you are here with me, no second thoughts, you've decided. Decided…"

He approached her slowly, the dissonant chords of his opera ringing in his ears as he sang the lyrics that he had composed.

The game must be played perfectly, or he would lose her forever. It would be only a matter of moments before the charade was discovered. But the choreography of this scene was perfect for his plan. A moment longer…only a moment…

"Past the point of no return—no backward glances, our games of make believe are at an end! Past all thoughts of if, or when, no use resisting—abandon thought and let the dream descend!"

She rose slowly to face him and his blood raced hotly through his veins at the sight of her, the Spanish dress clinging to her frame, the lacy sleeves hanging off of her shoulders, leaving the creamy skin bare to glow under the stage lights.

He reached for her, drew her roughly into his arms, against him, her body flush with his, her skin hot against his own. He felt her head fall back against his shoulder, her body begin to tremble with desire, saw her eyes close as he drew his hand over her hair and trailed his fingers over her throat.

She was his.

-

"What raging fire shall flood the soul?"

In that moment, Raoul knew. She had only ever reacted so to one man's touch, and jealousy burned hotly within his soul, warring with anger, and sorrow at the knowledge that she would never be entirely his.

_He'll take me. I know. If he finds me it won't ever end._

_"_What rich desire unlocks its door?"

He motioned to the gendarmes, but there was no chance of shooting the Phantom now without possibly harming Christine as well.

-

The Phantom drew away, running his fingers down her arm and bringing the hand to his lips. Her eyes were wide with shock at the sensations, a small smile at the edge of her parted lips.

"What sweet seduction lies before us?"

He smiled.

"Past the point of no return, the final threshold—what warm unspoken secrets will we learn? Beyond the point of no return…"

-

Madame Giry stared, wide-eyed at the stage. Never in her wildest dreams had she thought that the Phantom would go to such lengths to secure Christine's love.

"_Maman?_" Meg said, touching her mother's arm. "That is not Piangi."

"I know, Meg." Madame Giry answered, closing her eyes in silent prayer. "I know."

-

Christine turned away from the Phantom, her mind whirling, spinning with a thousand possibilities.

"You have brought me to that moment when words run dry—to that moment when speech disappears into silence, silence…I have come here, hardly knowing the reason why…"

She looked up and saw Raoul, hurt and rage mingling in his eyes, and she remembered then why she was here tonight, on the stage.

Betrayal.

But the Phantom was drawing her perilously close to betraying Raoul, instead.

"…In my mind I've already imagined our bodies entwining…"

Her eyelids fluttered and she felt her heart begin to race at the very words, the forbidden images that the lyrics conjured within her mind. There was passion in the air tonight, lust hanging thick and heavy in the air. Could she give this up, this desire that raced hotly through one's veins and caused one to give oneself up to the sweetest abandonment?

Did she want to?

"…Defenseless and silent…now I am here with you, no second thoughts…"

She turned back to face him.

"I've decided…"

Had she?

"Decided…"

With that last word, she gave an almost imperceptible nod.

She had decided.

She saw the look in his eyes, disbelief and joy mingled together.

Yes, she had decided.

-

He could hardly believe his eyes.

She had chosen him.

And he could see it in her eyes, her sultry smile, the way she moved as she began to sing again and they ascended the stairs together to the balcony, one step at a time, as the flamenco dancers wove themselves together behind them.

-

"Past the point of no return—no going back now…"

There was no going back. If she left with the Phantom tonight instead of Raoul, there would never be any going back.

Nor would there be if she went with Raoul. The choice was hers.

The choice was final.

"Our passion play has now at last begun! Past all thought of right or wrong…"

Christine did not know what was right and what was wrong any longer. But as she looked at the man ascending the stairs opposite her, she thought she knew what her heart's desire truly was.

-

Raoul rose from his seat, as though he could stop what was happening on stage before his very eyes. He was losing Christine, his beloved Christine, and there was nothing he could do…

He signaled the gendarme. In a moment perhaps, they could safely fire.

Christine could not blame him for carrying out what they had both planned.

Tears rose in his eyes as he watched them, unmanly tears, but he could not staunch them.

No matter what happened tonight, he had already lost her.

Perhaps he had lost her long ago.

-

"One final question, how long should we two wait before we're one? When will the blood begin to race, the sleeping bud burst into bloom?"

She faced him now, at opposite ends of the balcony, and she felt her blood begin to race as his gaze burned into hers, inciting a raging fire that could never, never be extinguished. This was where she belonged. This was what made her complete.

She approached him, a seductive smile spreading across her face, her voice deepening.

"When will the flames at last consume us?"

He flung his cape aside, moved towards her in a single graceful motion, and pulled her against him, her hand intertwined with his, moving slowly over her body, his lips a hairsbreadth from her throat as they sang together, and Christine felt fire race through her blood, consuming her mind, body and soul.

"Past the point of no return—the final threshold, the bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn!"

Christine knew that she had crossed the bridge and in a moment, only a moment, it would burst into flames.

"We've passed the point of no return."

For a moment, a long moment that seemed to stretch into forever, there was no sound but the chords throbbing through the air, and Christine was lost in the music enveloping her, his rough but gentle hands caressing her face and neck, loving her with his touch. A slow smile spread across her face, her head laid against his shoulder, her soul alight with this feeling, so new, so foreign to her. She loved this man.

And then, he began to sing.

-

Madame Giry stared, wide-eyed, at the balcony, denial in her mind and on her lips.

So this was the answer to all her prayers. The Viscomte would not take Christine away tonight as she had hoped, but instead Christine would be spirited away by the Phantom.

And Madame Giry knew that she was powerless to stop it.

Unless…

She motioned to the gendarme in the wings, her heart breaking at the betrayal that she had become a part of.

"His blood is no longer on your hands, Christine. I saved him, it is only right that I, in the end, should be the one to condemn him."

-

He would never know what possessed him to sing those lyrics to her. It was not part of the opera, not part of the plan. But in that moment, it seemed like the most obvious plea in the world.

"Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime. Lead me, save me from my solitude."

-

Christine's eyes opened, the spell broken. She was suddenly torn in two directions, between the man her soul loved, and the man that her heart still belonged to. She wanted to go to the Phantom, wanted to burn her bridges and slip away with him forever, but her eyes caught Raoul's. She saw the pain there, and she turned to face the Phantom, tears rising in her eyes and spilling down her cheeks.

She didn't know the difference between right and wrong any longer. Before tonight, before this moment, she had seen the lines drawn so clearly. But now, what had seemed so terribly wrong seemed like the one thing in the world that was right.

-

"Say you want me with you here, beside you."

-

Christine bit back a sob.

His voice rose in a daring crescendo, and she felt her heart breaking even as her heart turned back to return the way it had come.

"Anywhere you go, let me go too! Christine, that's all I ask of…"

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a gendarme, his rifle pointed at the Phantom.

And she did not know whether she did it to save him or to betray him, but she ripped his mask from his face.

Members of the audience began to scream in horror and fright, and the attention of the gendarmes was then directed elsewhere, if only for a moment.

She had saved him.

But there was betrayal in his eyes.

And behind it was rage, and Christine knew the meaning of terror.

She caught one last glimpse of Raoul, his face contorted in horror, before the Phantom unsheathed his sword, caught her up in his arms, and then everything was moving far too quickly, and she did not know what choice she had made any longer.

She could smell the acrid scent of smoke as they disappeared through a trap-door that she had never known was there, and her only thought was that she had burnt her bridges just when she wanted most desperately to go back.

The man who was spiriting her away was not the one that had sang so beautifully to her a moment ago, not the man who had touched her so lovingly.

She did not know who he was—the angel, the demon, or perhaps just the poor, pitiful man who had cried when she had taken away his mask once before, because he did not believe that she could see his face and still love him.

But the night was yet young.

Perhaps she would find out.


	2. Think of Me

**Chapter 1: Think Of Me**

The candles had all gone out. Silence and shadowy darkness replaced the noise and flickering lights of only a few moments before. But to Erik, it seemed a lifetime ago.

As the soft sound of the music box played, he buried his face in his hands. The damned melody repeated over and over, mocking him as it did so.

_Masquerade…hide your face so the world will never find you._

_Hide your face…hide your face…hide your face…_

_The world will never find you…never find you…never find you…_

No, the world would never have found him. But in a burst of utter foolishness, he had tried to gain the world, and now had lost his soul. He sat there, amidst the ruins of a life that he should never have tried to rebuild, and he cried. The sound of the water lapping against the sides of the boat was small comfort to him, for when the sound ceased it meant that his beloved Christine would be lost to him forever.

_Past the point of no return…_

It had been naught but an hour ago that he had sung to Christine his song of passion and desire, part of an opera he had written himself—for her. And though he had sung of reaching the point of no return, he knew that he had reached that point long before he had held her face in his hands and sang his final, passionate plea for her love.

_Anywhere you go, let me go too. Christine, that's all I ask of…_

He had fallen in love with her, given her his music, his heart and his soul, killed for her and risked his life for her…and she had betrayed him. For Raoul.

A spasm of hatred for the Viscomte took hold of him. That man, with his title and his flawless good looks, could have any woman that he wanted. There must be dozens of wealthy fathers who desired to match their daughters with such a man. So why would Raoul choose a poor, orphaned chorus girl turned star soprano to marry?

But the answer was obvious. Raoul had seen Christine's loneliness, her sweet and innocent soul, her unparalleled beauty and heard her angelic voice, as Erik himself had.

"She is mine!" he whispered harshly into the darkness. "I made her, I taught her. She would be nothing without me. She belongs to me!"

He heard the soft strains of the lovers' voices, singing their love song, and anger threatened to overwhelm him. The scrape of the oars against the bank and the soft swish of wood against water heralded their departure, and he rushed from the room, knocking over the table in his hurry.

The music box clattered to the floor and the haunting tune stopped abruptly.

They were passing beneath the grate, Raoul rowing doggedly on, and Christine clung to his arm.

_Say the word and I will follow you…_

She looked back once more, the remnants of her tears clinging to her lashes and staining her cheeks, and Erik thought that she had never looked so desperately beautiful as she did then, a fragile angel being borne away from Hell.

"You alone can make my soul take flight." He whispered the words almost reverently, caressing that final vision of her with his voice. How many times had he done so in the past—touched her with his voice when he could not do so with his hands, made love to her with his music because he could not do so in reality? How many times had he listened in complete rapture as their voices entwined together? Had he not written _Don Juan_ for her? Were not the passionate lyrics his own unspoken desires for Christine? He had expressed a thousand times his love, his desire, and his longing to make her his own through the music!

But it was all over now, all finished. He clenched his fists against the wave of pain and rage, and felt a biting sensation in his palm. He opened his hand.

The small ring glittered in the darkness, mocking him with its brilliance. Erik stared down at it, tracing the lines of the dainty setting with his eyes. Fragile and beautiful.

Just like Christine.

The rage boiled up inside of him, and he let loose with all the fury of the infamous Phantom of the Opera.

"It's over now, the music of the night!"

The sound of the shattering mirrors echoed the screaming of his own soul, no longer entrancing and harmonious, but loud, shrill and discordant, screaming to a deafening crescendo in his ears alone.

One by one, the full length glass mirrors broke, splintering the demonic reflection of his marred countenance into a thousand pieces. Shards of glass flew everywhere, embedding themselves into his skin, piercing the twisted and the perfect alike, sending thin rivulets of blood down Erik's face and arms.

The physical pain was nothing compared to the pain in his heart and soul.

The final mirror, the final wall of glass that had thrown back the horrific fact of his imperfection for so long, broke then, and he stepped through it, the _crunch_ of leather boots against glass terribly loud in the sudden stillness.

He slipped away into darkness.

-

Christine stood at the edge of the lake, her hand clasped in Raoul's, her eyes turned back towards the darkness of the Phantom's lair.

"Come, Christine! We must go." Raoul looked nervously across the lake. In the distance, so far away still that it was barely a murmur, could be heard the chanting voices of the mob, coming for the Phantom. "Even we will not be safe if they find us here."

But it seemed that Christine did not hear him. She was staring into the darkness, and her hand was cold as ice. She was trembling, and even in the darkness, Raoul thought that he could see a tear trickling down her cheek.

Fear gripped him. She was thinking of _him. _Visions of her, clasped in the Phantom's arms, singing sensuously to him on the stage, appeared in his mind, and anger mingled with the fear. "Come with me _now_, Christine!" he insisted, pulling at her hand.

Christine turned to him then, and she gently extracted her hand from Raoul's grasp. "The mob will be here soon." She glanced towards the stairs, her face expressionless.

Raoul sighed with impatience. The air was growing colder, and pain was still coursing through his body. Doubtless the Phantom's violence had injured him, and he desired nothing more than to be gone from this place. Let them burn it, burn it all, and the Phantom with it! Let him turn to ash with his cursed music, foul beast of hell that he was!

Still, he forced kind patience into his voice, lest Christine step over the brink she wavered on even now, and desert him for her angel of music. "You are right, Christine. They will not hesitate to kill us along with the Phantom if we tarry."

"Then go." Christine replied, her lovely voice flat. "I will not stop you."

Raoul gritted his teeth. "What foolishness is this, Christine? You would not stay with that monster!"

Christine whirled on him, her pale face flushing with anger, forgetting that the man of whom Raoul spoke had threatened both their lives only minutes before. "You forget, Raoul, that "monster" of which you speak inspired the voice that pulled the veil of my obscurity from your eyes! Did you notice me when I was but a chorus girl, standing with little Meg and admiring the handsome Viscomte from afar? Did you notice me when I stood silent, shadowed in Carlotta's glory? Or did you notice me when I stood, arrayed in stars and gossamer, singing with a voice inspired by no monster, no devil's child, but an angel trapped in the depths of Hell!"

Raoul was silent. There was no response for accusations such as these.

Christine's face and voice softened. She saw the pain on Raoul's face, and the love she felt for him could not help but implore her to mollify such a blow. She touched Raoul's face, fresh tears coursing down her cheeks. "Little Lotte is gone, Raoul. She left with Father. When he died, so much of my soul was stolen from me. But the Angel of Music came to me, and he filled the spaces in my shattered existence with beauty and music beyond the dreams that he sang to little Lotte in."

"He is not the angel that your father promised you, Christine! Would your father have sent you a murderer to guide you? Would he have sent a madman to guard you? I am your angel, Christine. I will guide and guard you. I will fill your days with joy and your nights with love, and music, too, if that is your wish. Sunshine will fill your life, Christine. With him, there is only darkness."

Christine's eyes filled with understanding and pity both. "You will never see him as I do, Raoul. That is your curse, and your gift, also. His face is twisted and distorted, but beneath the exterior is a soul so beautiful that the knowledge of such beauty is sometimes painful."

"You cannot leave me, Christine. Say you'll stay with me, share with me each night, each morning, just as we promised that night on the rooftop. That's all I ask of you, Christine. Nothing more."

Christine cupped Raoul's face gently in her hands. "You are a titled man, a handsome man, a wealthy man. You have so much to offer the world. There will be another woman for you, one who desires all that you have to give. But Raoul, the Phantom has loved and needed only one woman in all of his existence. And now that she stands, caught between the sunshine and the darkness, she cannot help but choose the darkness. For she is the only light that can ever pierce that darkness, just as the man who dwells there is the only one who could ever pierce the darkness of her soul. We are two beings who have long dwelt in the night, the Phantom and I, and only together can we find the path to, at the least, starlight."

Raoul felt tears on his cheeks, and he trembled when Christine gently brushed them away. "Little Lotte belonged to you, Raoul. And I cannot say that I do not wish sometimes that I were still she. But I am Christine, Raoul, and Christine belongs to the Angel of Music."

Raoul stepped away from Christine. "Go, then. Go to your angel, and may the flames of hell consume you both!" He turned sharply away from her, cursing as he walked away from the shore, leaving Christine to make her way back across the lake to the labyrinth.

-

Erik made his way down the dark corridor behind the mirror, his green eyes glowing in the darkness. It was dank and cold in the tunnel, water dripping from the walls and running in a thin stream beneath his feet. Had it always been this confining, this musty in here? He fought to keep at bay the unexplainable sense of panic that was steadily building within him.

His hands groped about in the darkness, fingers trailing down the walls and coming away covered in slime. He had been a fool to come here without a candle, but the flickering light might have led someone to him…

He had forgotten his mask. He realized this when a cold drop of water slid down the right side of his face, and he clapped a palm to his cheek in consternation. How was he to go above the surface without it? But again, how was he to go out with it? He was instantly recognizable both with and without the mask.

He would have to bribe someone to take him out of Paris, as far from France as he could get. He would…

He had come up against a barrier, walked directly into a wall of rock that dug painfully into his shoulder and arm as it halted his steady pace.

When had the tunnel become blocked? When had he last gone out for food, for paper and pens and ink? Had it been a week ago? Two? Three? His world had shrunk down to his plans for Christine and himself, and he could no longer remember the last time he had eaten or slept, or gone out for much-needed supplies.

The tunnel that led out from beneath the Opera House, his only means of escape, was blocked. He had no way out.

He was going to die.

For a moment, panic flared up, clutching at his chest and choking his throat. They would find him, and kill him. He could see it in his head—the clutching, grasping hands of the mob, dragging him down and beating him with fists, sticks, planks, stones. Perhaps the gendarmes would order them aside and dispatch him with a quick bullet through the head.

Or perhaps they would do things legally, and chain him, lead him to the jail and have him tried for his crimes. Then, after an appropriate time, he would be led out into the public square for the crowd to jeer at him as he walked up the scaffolding to be hung. No doubt the Viscomte and his blushing bride would also be there. Raoul would laugh, and perhaps spit on the ground when Erik hung, and then drive away, satisfied that his idyllic world was safe. Christine would turn her head away and cry, and perhaps she would feel pity for her Angel, her poor Angel…

No! He did not want Christine's pity. He wanted her love, only that, and he could not bear the thought of being dragged before a mocking crowd again, of being jailed and beaten. If he must die, he would die here, in his labyrinth.

He turned and walked out the way he had come, with each painful step resigning himself further to his fate. By the time he reached the end of the tunnel, he had come to welcome the thought. He sat down again, righted the music box, picked up the mask.

_Hide your face so the world will never find you…_

They had, at last, found him.


	3. Angel of Music

**Chapter 2: Angel Or Phantom**

Christine stumbled out of the boat, the heavy, waterlogged silk folds of the gown making her exit difficult, and considerably less than graceful. She tossed the oar down into the gondola, and, picking up her skirts, hurried as quickly as she could up the shore.

She saw him then, standing just outside the tunnel, facing away from her, and she darted quickly into the shadows, not wanting him to see her yet. Not yet…

What should she say? What should she do? Surely he was angry with her, and she feared him when he was angry. Perhaps he would send her away again, and then where would she go? Not back to Raoul. To return to Raoul, though he would welcome her, marry her, and pretend all was right, to return to him would mean a lifetime of misery for both of them.

She could never be the wife he needed. She could never love him as he deserved, though love him she did. She could never belong to him.

She belonged to the scarred man standing only a few yards away, clutching his mask in his hands as though he would break it to pieces.

-

Tears streamed jaggedly down Erik's face as he looked disconsolately down at the mask in his hands.

His fingers tightened around it until the knuckles whitened, and then he threw it angrily across the room. No need for such a trifle now—the only one that he had ever truly desired to never see his face was gone. And death would come soon. There was no need for masks in Hell…

He could hear the chanting voices behind him in the distance, maneuvering their way through the tunnels beneath the Opera House. Eventually they would find him, and they would kill him in the name of justice. Justice it would be, indeed.

Death would be sweet now, sweeter than an eternity of Christine's face and voice haunting him. Sleep—dreamless, silent sleep. The ultimate darkness, where he would be hidden from the cruelties of the world forever. He wondered that he had not taken such a road before.

Although, he mused, perhaps the cruelties of Hell were far worse than those of this world.

He would find out very soon.

Despite the burgeoning presence of the unknown, all fear of death had fled from him. His only purpose in life had been to make music, and that was now abhorrent to him, as abhorrent as the leather mask that lay on the floor where it had landed, as repulsive as the sight of his destroyed face. He would never be able to live as a man—Christine and her lover had seen to that—but he would die as a man, unmasked and welcoming, and damn anyone who suggested otherwise.

He walked to the organ, sat at the bench, placed his fingers on the keys. The cool ivory molded to the warmth of his fingers, the grooves worn by over two decades of furious playing as familiar to him as the image of his ravaged flesh.

But he did not play.

-

Christine stood in the shadows, trails of tears making slow progress down her face, sending new rivulets of already-smeared stage makeup down her face. She watched the Phantom take his place at the organ, and she waited for the music, steeled herself for the furious barrage of chords that she expected to fill the labyrinth.

But no sound came from the aged instrument. He merely sat, fingers caressing the yellowed keys, his lips moving in a silent requiem.

She saw the mask lying on the floor, and she was glad that his face was hidden. It was not the sight of the twisted and scarred flesh that she dreaded, but rather his eyes, eyes that had held her captive so many times, and would now, in the wake of her betrayal, no doubt be filled with that same sadness that she had once described to Raoul.

All the sadness of the world.

It was a great deal of sorrow for one man.

She remembered the last time she had stood in this spot, watching her angel, and how he had played that morning, drawing her from the warmth of the bed out into the chill of the labyrinth. He had been sitting at the organ, in his robe and trousers, the mask affixed to one side of his face, and he had looked so innocent, so terrible vulnerable.

She had touched his face, let her fingers slide across the perfect flesh on the one side, her palm had molded itself to his cheek, and he had leaned into her caress, his eyes had slid closed. He had looked as though no one had ever touched him so gently.

But she had destroyed that moment, had let her curiosity get the best of her, and had pulled his mask off of his face.

Perhaps if she had not done so, if he had not been so furious, if he had not scared her so badly, if she had been braver—perhaps everything would have been so very different.

She still did not know how to approach him. Words had always been so very difficult between them. Music had been the language that they had both shared, their way of communicating when no one else could speak to each other so. It had been beautiful.

It had been the basis of her love for him.

She braced herself, tried to banish fear from her mind, and she stepped from the shadows.

"I remember there was mist…swirling mist upon a vast, glassy lake…"

His head lifted suddenly, and she could see the sudden tensing of his muscles, a startled flexing of his fingers.

"Whose was that shape in the shadows? Whose is the face in the mask?"

He turned his head slowly to the direction of the voice, and Christine saw what she had feared—emotions too strong for words displayed boldly across his marred features. He said nothing, only stared at her, stared at her as though she were a ghost…a vision…an angel.

Christine took another unsteady step forwards, her heart pounding in her chest. Her throat tightened, and her shaky whisper sounded choked when it flew past her lips.

"Angel."

-

She must be a dream. His mind had come unhinged—a lifetime of longing had left him mad, hallucinating—it was the only explanation he could come up with.

Christine was gone. He had seen her pass beneath the grate with Raoul. They would be out of the Populaire by now, headed to his estate, warm beside a roaring fire.

She could not be here. It defied all logic.

She was gone.

And yet, this vision, this product of a tortured mind, moved a step closer to him, and then another, until Christine stood right in front of him, and he could feel her hand slip around his, her fingers prying open his clenched fist.

This could not be.

-

Christine opened his palm. The ring was still there, right where she had left it, and she slipped it out of his hand. She held it for just a moment, stared at it, and then she slid it onto her hand.

His eyes slipped from her face to her hand, and he shook his head slowly, as though trying to comprehend something far beyond his grasp.

She leaned towards him, placed her hand on the right side of his face, the warmth of her palm pressed against the scars on his cheek. And then, her lips were pressed against his, her other hand coming up to hold his face, and he was temporarily stunned. His lips moved against hers, and he felt the warmth of her tongue against his lips for just a moment as she kissed him.

She pulled back then, only an inch or so, her breath still warm against his lips.

"Pitiful creature of darkness, what kind of life have you known?" Her voice was soft and tremulous, and he thought that he must be reliving the last moments he had shared with her, the last words she had sang to him before she had slipped away forever.

He could almost feel the icy water at his knees, could hear the light swish of water against lace and silk as Christine walked into the lake, Raoul's groans of pain as he struggled against the bonds that held him to the gate.

"God give me courage to show you, you are not alone!"

She brushed her lips against his once more, then, reaching for his hand, pulled him to his feet.

He stared down at her.

"Just a dream," he whispered. "Always a dream." He touched her face, daring in his belief that he was only dreaming to run his fingers along the tracks the tears had made in her stage makeup, to brush the tangled curls away from her eyes. "Always a dream."

Christine was silent, her face flushing at his touch, her skin afire. She closed her eyes when his hands traced her jaw line, brushed against the soft flesh of her neck, traced the lace edge of her tight bodice. Her body swayed towards him, and then suddenly, his touch ceased.

Erik backed away from her, fists clenched at his sides. "Is this really a dream, Christine?" he demanded suddenly. "Am I mad, or do you really stand here before me?" His eyes swept over her face, begging for her to be real and only a fantasy simultaneously.

Christine's eyes opened, and she said nothing for a moment. Then, finally, she spoke, and her voice was barely a whisper. "This is not a dream."

Erik shook his head. "Raoul is gone." He gestured wildly at the lake. The Viscomte has left! You cannot be here!"

Christine stepped towards him again, her eyes full of compassion as she reached out and brushed his marred cheek with her fingertips. "I am here, Angel. Raoul has left, but I remained."

Disbelief filled Erik's eyes. "Why, Christine? _Why?_"

She smiled thinly. "Must you ask?"

"Look at me, Christine! I am a monster, disfigured, marred—even my own mother could not bear the sight of me! And yet you stay? Why, Christine?"

Christine moved slowly away from him, her gaze still matching his. "Your face holds no horror for me."

Erik's eyes turned bitter. "Finish the verse, Christine. It's in my soul that the true distortion lies, no? Tell me again that I am a murderer, my hands soiled with the blood of innocent stagehands and singers! It is not my distorted face that poisons our love, it is the blackness of my soul! You did not hesitate to tell me when you still desired your precious Viscomte! Go on, Christine, tell me again!"

Christine caught her lower lip between her teeth, and looked up at Erik with such compassion and…some nameless emotion that Erik wanted desperately to call love, but didn't dare…in her eyes that for a moment he could almost believe that she had stayed for him.

"I don't presume to know what darkness drove you to commit those murders. I don't presume to understand your mind, Angel, or even your heart. But I do understand your soul, and I know that beneath that distortion is a beauty far beyond any I've ever experienced."

"That darkness was my love for you, Christine." Erik could not bear to look at her any longer. He turned away to face the lake, still speaking. "I've lived so long in shadows and trickery that I knew no other way. I saw Buquet as an obstacle to you…he knew too much. I was afraid that he would frighten you—that you would realize that his opera ghost and your angel were one and the same, and that you would flee from me. Signor Piangi…I thought by killing him and assuming his role…the role of Don Juan, that I could make you see that you belonged with me. And if I had stopped there, I might have had you still. But then, I had to threaten your precious Viscomte. And that was where I went wrong…that was where the game ended. And now, you can never love me. Those tears you might have shed for me have turned to tears of hate, remember, precious Christine? You cannot love me."

"Then what is this that fills my heart now?" Christine laid her hand on his shoulder, urging him to turn and face her. "What is it that drove me to leave Raoul and return to you? Surely you know by now that I am no dream, Angel. Surely you know that I am real."

"Don't call me that!" Erik suddenly cried, whirling away and pressing his face into his hands. "For as surely as I know that you are real, surely you must see that I am no angel!"

But Christine would not be stopped. "If I cannot call you Angel, then what am I to call you? What is your name? Or do the angels, be they of heaven or of hell, have names?"

He did not turn to face her, but he answered, quietly. "I was never given a name. My mother could not bear the thought or sight of me, much less see to my naming. But somewhere in my wretched existence, I was called Erik."

"Erik." Christine murmured softly, and Erik trembled at the sound of his name on her lips. He turned to her again, fearing what he would see on her face, and bewilderment filled his features when he saw that her expression had not changed.

"Sing to me again, Erik." She placed her small, delicate hand in his. "Sing to me of the music of the night."


	4. The Music Of The Night

**Chapter 3: The Music of the Night**

Erik hesitated only a moment, glancing towards the lake over which the mob would come. He could hear the shouting, but it was still some ways off. He looked back down at Christine, and he could not refuse her.

There was no escaping from here. He knew it, and so did she. These moments together might well be their last.

"Very well." He smiled gallantly down at her. "The music of the night."

He released her hand then, turning away momentarily and holding a match to a short candle in a pewter holder. With that candle, he lit another, and another, until all the tapers surrounding the organ were lit and the room was once more bathed in an ethereal light.

Christine stood at the edge of the steps, her eyes wide. He turned back to her and took her hand in his, drawing her into the circle of candlelight. The music came to him as naturally as breath, and with his rich voice, he took himself and Christine back in time.

"Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation. Darkness stirs, and wakes imagination. Silently the senses abandon their defenses…"

Christine closed her eyes, letting the music wash over her, face bathed in light. Erik looked down at her, longing to draw her to him, resisting in his persistent notions of unworthiness. _Had she ever looked more angelic than she did in this moment? What right did he have to embrace an angel?_

"Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendor. Grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender. Turn your face away from the garish light of day. Turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light—and listen to the music of the night."

Christine drifted towards him, and his free hand moved up to caress her cheek, touching the soft, glowing skin with something akin to reverence in his eyes and touch. Christine sighed softly, her body swaying as though in a breeze.

"Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams. Purge your thoughts of the life you knew before. Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar…"

She felt her spirit rise and take flight.

"And you'll live as you've never lived before."

Had she ever lived before this moment? Had she ever loved until now?

"Softly, deftly, music shall caress you. Hear it, feel it, secretly possess you. Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind, in this darkness that you know you cannot fight…the darkness of the music of the night."

His rich voice filled her senses, caressed her like a lover's touch, and took complete possession of her. The sweet trance of her angel's music fell upon her, and she was his once again.

"Let your mind start to journey through a strange new world. Leave all thoughts of the life you knew before. Let your soul take you where you long to be…"

Erik looked down at the woman who stood again in his thrall, and he hardly dared believe that his next words, his wildest and closest dream, might have become reality. His voice trembled as he sang again.

"Only then, can you belong to me."

He found courage then, and drew her into his arms as he had done before.

"Floating, falling, sweet intoxication."

He was intoxicated, drunk with the sensation of Christine's body again his, his bare hands running down her sides.

"Touch me…"

She responded to his words, her hands reaching for him, running down his arms, covering his hands. His breath caught in his throat, momentarily choking down the next line of the song as her soft hands closed over his, not guiding, merely covering as he drew his hands over the bodice of her dress, traced the outline of her corset.

"Trust me…"

She leaned against him, her body accepting his caresses, giving in to him, _trusting him…_

"Savor each sensation…"

Erik closed his eyes too, his voice rising passionately in his throat as he gloried in these moments, however brief, that had been granted to him this night.

"Let the dream begin, let your darker side give in, to the power of the music that I write…the power of the music of the night!"

He was her darker side. He was her soul. The notes echoed around the labyrinth as Erik held Christine against him, her head fallen against his shoulder. He kissed her cheek, grazing her skin with his lips, tracing her jaw and throat before drawing away and turning her to face him. He caught her eyes with his and softly sang the final verse of the song.

"You alone can make my soul take flight. Help me make the music of the night."

She opened her eyes and looked up at him, her fingers tracing the lines of his face gently. "That first night that you brought me here, Erik," she whispered. "I had never heard anything so beautiful in my life. I had already fallen in love with your music, but it was that night that I fell in love with you."

He had known it, but to hear her say it filled his heart with an emotion so strong that he felt as though he might burst. He took both her hands in his, his heart pounding madly as he looked down at her.

"Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime."

His voice was tremulous, even more so than it had been when they stood together on the balcony. He could still hardly believe that this was not a dream, and if he was to lose her now…

"Lead me, save me from my solitude. Say you want me with you here, beside you. Anywhere you go, let me go too. Christine, that's all I ask of you."

Her eyes opened, and when he looked down at her, he heard no screams, saw no tears.

"Yes, Erik," she whispered, her lips trembling. "I want you here with me."

Erik wavered only a moment, his eyes flickering between her wide brown eyes and her pale, slightly parted lips. Her lashes dropped coquettishly, and he bent to kiss her, inhaling sharply when he felt her mouth move against his, her hands reach up to stroke his hair. The glorious sweetness of it seemed to go on forever, until finally she drew away from him, met his eyes for just a moment, and then she lay her head against his shoulder, her body nestled against his. He closed his eyes, lost in a sea of wonders.

A sudden crash broke the spell, and Erik looked across the lake. The voices had grown much louder, too loud, and he thrust Christine from him, his face terrified for her. He turned to the lever on the wall, and all that stopped him was Christine's cry.

"No, Erik! Madame Giry may be with them, and Meg too! Besides…there are so many, Erik! You cannot kill them all! Perhaps Heaven can forgive you the deaths of Buquet and Piangi…but not this, Erik!"

He turned savagely on her. "What care I for Hell, Christine? Don't you see that there is no worse hell for me than living my life without you? And worse than that, seeing you harmed? They will kill you as well as me, Christine! I cannot allow that! _I will not!_"

"Madame Giry may be with them." Christine repeated calmly. "And if she is, she can make them listen to reason. Don't turn the lever yet, Erik."

"If I don't now, I never can." Erik replied. "By the time Antoinette can reason with them, they will be past it."

"Then don't," Christine said, taking his face in her hands, "and I will die with you if I must. But don't murder again, Erik. You no longer need kill for my love. Wash your hands of the deaths for which you are responsible, and if our deaths are required as payment, then so be it. But I will not leave you, and I cannot permit you to kill again for me."

-

Raoul climbed from the boat and staggered up onto the stairs. He paused for a moment to catch his breath, and then began the slow ascent back up the way he had come. The chanting of the mob grew closer and closer, and then they were there.

They swept around him, hardly noticing him, intent upon their destination. Raoul flattened himself against one wall to avoid being trampled, and in the midst he saw Madame Giry and Meg. They did not see him, and he called out Madame Giry's name, but the ballet mistress could not hear him above the din.

Raoul knew where they were going and what their purpose was, and he wanted to weep. Christine was down there, his beloved Christine…

He turned and started to go after them, but the thought of the icy water and the pain racking his limbs stopped him. Madame Giry was with the mob, he reasoned. She would not let them harm Christine. As for the Phantom…he deserved whatever fate the law or the vigilante justice of the people meted out to him.

Raoul finished that thought, and he smiled. The Phantom would be arrested or killed. Madame Giry would rescue Christine, and once the young girl recovered from the shock, she would remember Raoul. She would remember that he had braved the terror of the Opera Populaire's catacombs to rescue her. She would remember how she had once loved him, and she would return.

Raoul turned and continued up the stairs. "Clever Phantom, you think you've won. But your doom is near, and it will be to me that Christine will finally come!"

-

Erik's hands dropped to his sides, and then encircled Christine. They faced the stairs together, awaiting the mob's arrival.

Christine looked towards the open grate, the lake, knowing that there was their only chance of escape. A new, horrifying thought came to her, and her eyes widened as she looked up at Erik. "Raoul and I took the boat." She pressed her fingers to her mouth. "How were you to escape?"

Erik looked down at her. "I wouldn't have. There's no other means of escape from here, Christine. You and Raoul were to take the only way. Now he has."

Christine stared, dumbfounded, at him. "Would you have really killed Raoul?" She was as surprised by the sudden question as Erik, and for a moment Christine was afraid of what reaction her question might bring. But when he finally spoke, his voice was calm.

"I don't know." Erik answered honestly. "I've done many unsavory things in the throes of my passion for you, Christine, but I'd like to think that I would have freed him, whatever your answer might have been. As much as I longed for you, Christine, I couldn't have borne your unhappiness. I am a madman, but not so mad as to truly believe that by killing your lover I could earn your love."

Christine nodded, and laid her head against Erik's chest, her eyes watching the lake across which their hunters would come. "Raoul is safe from them, and I am with you, my angel. You are my lover now, Erik."

He pulled her closer to him, as though by that simple movement he could protect her from the fury of the crowd that drew closer and closer to them. "Whether or not we will survive long enough to truly earn that title remains to be seen, my dear."

-

"Mother, can't you stop them?" Meg Giry clung to her mother's sleeve, trying valiantly to keep her footing on the slick stairs. She looked from side to side, her eyes wide. The mob had grown, police and civilians alike, all hungry for the blood of the Phantom.

Madame Giry silenced her daughter with a mere tap of a finger on her lips. "Hush, Meg. They will hear you."

Meg was quiet for a moment, glancing fearfully about, the murderous chants of the people and the flickering fires of the torches they carried filling her with terror. "Christine is gone, though, isn't she? She is safe, at least?"

"Christine and Raoul are both gone." Madame Giry replied crisply.

It then occurred to Meg to wonder why they were risking their lives by going with the mob to the Phantom's lair if there was no need to save Christine.

-

Madame Giry wished desperately that her daughter had retained the good sense to stay behind. But the Opera Populaire was in flames, and the girl was hardly likely to stand out in the streets waiting for her mother to return.

Antoinette cursed herself for a fool. She cared little for her own safety, but now her beloved daughter's well-being was in danger as well. If Meg died as a result of her mother's foolhardy attempt to once more save the boy-turned-madman that she had rescued from a similar fate so many years before, the ballet mistress wondered if she would ever be able to forgive herself. Meg was an innocent child. Erik, on the other hand…

He had murdered two men and threatened the life of another. At least, she hoped that all he had done to Raoul was threaten him. Her affirmation of Christine and Raoul's safety to Meg was based on hope, not on fact. She knew that Erik had taken Christine with him, and that Raoul, with her help, had followed. She knew nothing else.

And now, her daughter was in as much danger as she. Madame Giry had no idea of to what lengths the Phantom might go to defend himself. Had his genius truly turned to madness, as Raoul had said? She prayed it was not so. She loved the man as much as she had loved the little boy that she had rescued. In many ways, Erik was still very much a boy.

Despite his deeds of the past weeks, Madame Giry found it hard to believe that he would kill Raoul, and she simply could not accept that he would harm Christine. He must have let them go.

He must have.

-

"The point of no return." Christine murmured softly. "I didn't truly understand what that meant until now. This is the point of no return, isn't it, Erik?"

"There are many points of no return, my love." Erik said, combing his fingers through her hair. "This is one. God grant we may live to see others." He said nothing more.

There was no time to say anything else. The mob evidently had not found the lake much of an obstacle. Torches flickering, a few guttering out and then being hastily relit, they swarmed over the water and onto the shore.

Christine couldn't help herself. She screamed in terror, all resolutions of bravery leaving her as she spun in Erik's arms and hid her face against his chest.

Erik tightened his arms around her and faced the mob with mocking gallantry.

"Messieurs," and he paused, inclining his head to the mob, "and madams, I bid you welcome." He offered a ghost of a mocking smile, and even he was not sure whether he mocked the crowd or himself. "Did you think that I would harm her?"

-

Madame Giry broke free of the crowd, Meg's small hand clenched tightly to hers. She took in the full scene—the boat gone, no sign of Raoul, the Punjab lasso fallen listlessly in the water…and Christine held closely in the Phantom's embrace.

She knew in an instant what had transpired. The Phantom had caught Raoul. _Foolish boy, I told him to keep his hand at the level of his eyes._ Somehow, Christine had convinced the Phantom to let Raoul take the boat and escape.

The mystery that remained was whether Christine remained with the Phantom of her own free will or no. And then, as she staggered up the shore with Meg, she saw Christine look up at Erik, and Antoinette caught the emotion that filled the young prima donna's eyes.

Madame Giry knew.

-

Meg took in the scene too, and her innocent young mind, knowing that Christine was engaged to Raoul, could not help but believe that Christine was being held prisoner by the Opera Ghost. Her first sight of the Phantom unmasked did not help her image of him, steeped as it was in superstition and Buquet's wild tales. Fear and repulsion filled her eyes, and terror for her friend took over her. "Do something, Mother!" she cried. "Save Christine from the Phantom of the Opera!"

-

"Hush, child!" Madame Giry exclaimed, but too late. An officer standing near smiled at little Meg.

"Don't fear, child." He smirked at Madame Giry. "That is precisely what we are here to do."


	5. Track Down This Murderer

**Author's Note: This is by no means the end of the story, but it is the end of the chapters that I had already written prior to posting on this site. So...ideas, readers, ideas! As always, please review. Your comments help me write. :)  
WARNING: There is very brief, mild language in this chapter and a scene of attempted rape. I assume that since the story is rated PG-13, that this is not offensive, but this is to let you know in advance.**

**Chapter 7: Track Down This Murderer**

Gently, Erik detached Christine's arms from him and stepped away from her. She looked wordlessly up at him, and he pressed her down onto the bench. "Wait here, my love."

"No!" Christine cried, but Erik was already making his way down towards the mob. Christine rose and followed him, refusing to obey his command.

"Christine, I said to stay there!" Erik repeated, holding out a hand to stop her.

"No." Christine said, taking his hand. "Anywhere you go, I go too. That's the vow I made you, remember? First coerced, to save Raoul's life, and now of my own free will, Erik. If you go to face them, I go with you."

-

Madame Giry looked up at Erik, and he met her gaze. His booming voice called out to her, a note of cruelty there.

"Good Madame, have you come to see my fate play out? Have you come to finish your part in my sad tale? Or do you come to rescue your little ingénue from the clutches of the beast!"

Giry's tired eyes filled with sorrowful tears. "Erik, you above all should know that I would never betray you."

The officer stepped in front of her. "Madame, please go back to the others." He cleared his throat. "Erik…" He turned back to Madame Giry. "Pray tell, Madame, what is his surname?"

"He has none." Giry said quietly. "He has only the name of Erik, which was given him by me."

"Very well." The officer began again. "Erik, you are charged with the murder of Joseph Buquet, a stagehand, Signor Piangi, a singer, the attempted murder of the Viscomte Raoul de Chagny, and the abduction and unlawful imprisonment of one Miss Christine Daae. In the name of the law, I charge you to come down and give yourself over to these good officers in the service of France, that you may be tried for your heinous crimes."

Madame Giry flinched as the officer recited each of the charges against Erik. She knew what the penalty would be, and that there was no chance of acquittal. The shell of fortitude around her cracked, and the tears came. She clung to Meg's hand, her heart breaking, knowing that there was no one who could save Erik now. There was no way for him to run, no place for him to hide. A mob two hundred angry men and women strong stood between Erik and escape. Not even the Phantom of the Opera could have beaten such odds, and Madame Giry knew that in his obsessive love for Christine, Erik was only a man.

-

The mob was growing impatient. They had little love for fancy words and long-winded speeches. They had come for blood, and by God, that was what they would have. Brandishing pieces of debris that they had picked up along the way and waving their torches menacingly, they ignored the urgings of the officers to remain on the shore. They began to push past them, calling for the Phantom's death.

"Revenge for Buquet! Revenge for Piangi!" they cried as they advanced, casting aside the threats of the officers and the cries of Madame Giry and Meg. One burly man broke free of the group and grabbed Christine's elbow, pulling her into his arms.

"Aren't you a pretty little thing?" He ran his hands up her bare arms, leering at her in the torchlight. Christine writhed and screamed, but he was stronger than she. "I was in the opera tonight, I saw you on that stage. I had heard of a woman who sang like an angel, but you were no angel tonight." He tore the sleeve of her dress, and smiled when he felt the material of her chemise. "Your undergarments are not so fine as the outer, little prima donna. How do you afford tuition at such a fine establishment as the Opera Populaire, I wonder?" His meaning was clear.

Christine pulled one hand free and slapped him hard across the face.

"Bitch!" he yelled, and grabbed her hair, forcing her head back and pressing his mouth down painfully on hers.

Erik roared in anger and lunged towards the man, shoving him away from Christine and grabbing the frightened girl up in his arms. "_Don't touch her!" _he shouted to the crowd, his face furious. "You've come for me, you dogs, not her!" He clasped her to him, turning and retreating back up into the circle of candles around his organ.

"Are you all right?" He set her down on the bench, took her face in his hands, kissed away the tears of pain and fear that were spilling down her cheeks.

She clung to him with both hands, a helpless child again. "They're going to take you. They'll take you away from me and I'll never see you again. They'll take you where I can't go, Erik!"

-

Madame Giry stood, helpless, watching the scene that she had so long feared play out before her eyes. She screamed out angrily when the man tried to force himself on Christine. Erik rescued her, as she was certain he would, but what shocked her was when Christine reached out and held him close to her, refusing to let him go back down to the crowd that demanded justice.

Could the girl love him? After all that Erik had done, could Christine truly love him?

It seemed that she did.

But it was too late.

"Nothing can save you now." Giry whispered helplessly, and then, something occurred to her.

"Except, perhaps, Christine."

-

Christine looked down at the mob, hungry for blood. She looked back at Erik's tired face. "I can't let them take you."

"Do you want to die, Christine?" He looked tenderly down at her. "If I go down there, they won't harm you. You can live, Christine. You can go back to the world, the sunlight…even Raoul."

Christine looked up at him. "If you go, they'll arrest you. They'll try you and execute you. I'll lose you forever."

"Not forever, my love. Just for a while. But I'll think of you. There will never be a day that I won't think of you. Even in Heaven."

Christine bit her lip, tears streaming down her face. "And what will you do in Heaven, Erik?"

A small smile curved the corners of his mouth, a gaiety that he did not feel. "I'll visit your father, Christine." He touched her cheek lovingly. "You told me once that he did not believe that he was ever visited by the Angel of Music. I'll go to him, and we'll spend hours together, talking of you. I'll tell him stories of our lessons, of the Angel of Music that came to his daughter just as he promised, and how that angel loved her."

Christine gave a small cry, and, her heart breaking, reached for him and pressed her lips to his.

He lifted her from the bench, holding her tightly to him, gently kissing her, careful not to hurt the places on her lips so recently bruised.

Her hands combed through his hair, held his mouth down on hers. Her heart begged for him to stay, her soul cried out that without him her voice could no longer sing, he _was _her soul, the essence of her being. Her mouth longed to shape those words, her voice tried to utter them, but only a small moan emitted, and deep in her mind she knew that he was leaving her, that this time it was she who must be left alone, that he would die and leave her as her father had, and this time there would be no Angel of Music to comfort her and guide her. All these things and more she knew in those moments that she held her angel, her Erik, close against her, and with them she knew that she must say none of these things, and the only way that she could stop the words was to keep him here, his lips pressed to hers, blocking all utterance, all sounds and all thoughts, except the one that she so longed to say and had not as yet spoken.

"_Erik, I love you."_

**

* * *

So...where do you want the story to go from here? Should Erik go with the mob? Should Christine find a way to save him, as Madame Giry thinks she can? I have no more chapters pre-written, so your ideas will help to determine which way the story goes! **


	6. Don Juan

**Author's Note: Thanks to all my reviewers. Well, the story will continue. Had the overwhelming consensus been that Erik should go to the mob, then I would have written an epilogue, and it would be finished. However, it was unanimous that he should live and remain with Christine, and so I bow to the wishes of my readers.  
The story continues, and will for some time, since my other plan will be put into motion. Look forwards to lots of reading, and keep the ideas coming! This chapter is basically a little more Erik/Christine angst, and some things from Raoul's POV. The next chapter will have more resolution to it. But you won't get to see how the mob situation is resolved until chapter ten, so keep reading and reviewing...and don't worry, it will continue past ****chapter ten!**

**-**

**Chapter 8: Don Juan**

Erik had endured many agonies in his life. He had borne things that no human being should ever be asked to bear, and he had spent all his life in rejection and sorrow. He had been called a beast, a monster, and a devil, and to his mind, all of those titles had some credence.

But now, he stood in the arms of an angel who believed he was of like kind, and he thought that he would gladly endure all those past agonies and more if he might only be spared the awful pain of what he must now do.

With infinite gentleness, he dislodged himself from Christine's embrace, and moved away from her.

"I must go, Christine. The police cannot hold the mob much longer, and then it will be all over for us both."

Christine looked down to the lakeshore, and she knew that he was right. Only the dramatic flourish of their final embrace had prevented an utter riot. It was a fitting ending to a story so long told, and the theatre-loving crowd was sure to have enjoyed it, she thought bitterly.

She looked back up at Erik, and she wanted nothing more than to beg him to stay. She searched his face and saw that all the sadness of the world had returned to his eyes, and she knew that he needed her now more than ever. He needed her strength, for it seemed that he had none left for himself.

She gently touched the disfigured side of his face, and nodded.

Erik hesitated only a moment, and then he turned, squaring his shoulders resolutely, and began to walk towards the mob. A hand on his arm stopped him, and when he turned, Christine was crying again. "Erik…" she whispered softly.

"What, Christine?"

"Erik, I love you."

-

Raoul reached the top of the stairs, and approached the two-way mirror through which he had come. The glass was blackened, rendering it almost useless. It still opened, however, and he stepped through it into Christine's dressing room.

The fire had apparently been contained before it had reached this room. The door was partially burnt, and the walls on either side streaked with black soot. But for the most part, it was still unharmed.

Raoul lingered for a moment, breathing in the scent of Christine's perfume that still remained, even through the pervasive sulphur odor. He looked about the room for something of hers, some token for him to keep. His eyes were drawn to her dressing-table, and he saw the mask that she had worn to the Opera ball lying on the varnished wood.

He picked it up, running his fingers over the smooth, stiff fabric of the guise. It was a fitting thing for him to find, he reflected bitterly.

The mask in his hand, he jerked open the door of the room and exited into the theatre of the Opera Populaire.

Nothing on earth could have prepared him for the destruction he saw before him. The red velvet seats were burnt out, only a semblance of the frames remaining. The walls were charred, and the stage was completely ravaged. The magnificent sculptures were blackened, and the heavy odor of sulphur and smoke nearly choked Raoul when he took a shaky breath.

He walked slowly towards the remains of the stage, and crossed to the center. He looked up from his vantage point to Box Five, where he had watched the Phantom and Christine perform the finale of _Don Juan Triumphant_. How full of dreams he had been that night! He had hardly heard most of the opera, parting from his thoughts only when Christine's angelic voice pierced them.

He tried to fight back the memories, but they would not leave. One in particular seemed to have burned its way indelibly into his thoughts: the sight of his Christine, his fiancée, locked in the Phantom's embrace. She had never given in so to _his _embraces, her girlish modesty had never permitted _his_ hands to touch her so, her head had never fallen back on _his_ shoulder in a pose of abandonment, her skin had never flushed hot under _his_ touch. Raoul tried to remember a moment between them when Christine's eyes had glazed over with desire for him, when her body had moved sensuously against his, but he could find none. She had loved him, of that he was certain, but with a girlish innocence not far removed from the day when, as a small child, he had run into the sea to fetch her scarf and she had kissed him for it.

What part of her soul had the Phantom touched that he could not reach? What connection could a ghost have with Christine that her childhood sweetheart did not?

These were questions with answers already given.

Raoul fell to his knees on the stage, the mask still clutched in his hand. "Christine!" he cried out to the walls, his voice breaking. Tears streamed from his eyes as he buried his head in his hands, the stiff material of the mask brushing against his cheek. The scent of her perfume filled his senses, and her face appeared again before him. Christine filled his thoughts, his senses, her face dancing before his eyes, her voice singing in his mind. And in that moment, kneeling brokenly on the charred floor of the stage, Raoul knew the misery of love that had possessed his rival for so long. His body shook, racked with sobs, and he cried out to the silent, unfeeling walls that had once trembled to the beauty of her voice:

"Christine, come back to me. Christine, Christine, I love you."


	7. I Remember

**Author's Note: A bit more of Madame Giry in this chapter, and Christine's decision. Never fear, in the next chapter this situation will be resolved, and the story can progress to new, more original territory. It won't end for some time, so I hope you will keep reading and reviewing the chapters. Enjoy!**

**-**

**Chapter 9: I Remember**

Antoinette Giry had not cried in many years. When Monsieur Jules had died, she had thought that all her tears had been shed in the days and months following. Had it not been for little Meg and Erik, she did not believe that she would have survived. Her daughter had become the center of her existence, all that was left of her beloved husband. And Erik, the little boy that she had saved, was rarely seen. But she knew he was there, and she made it her business to see that the managers followed his requests. For years, she had done this, and every day she had feared that one day his secret would be discovered, and the semblance of peace that he had found would be shattered.

Christine Daae had been the beginning of the end. Madame Giry had loved her as a daughter, and little Meg had become a close friend to the young orphan. But from the first day that Christine had come to her, telling tales of an Angel of Music sent by her deceased father, Madame Giry had known that Erik had discovered the little orphan.

At first, Antoinette had believed that he had taken pity on her loneliness, so like his own, and had sought to alleviate it. It had been so harmless.

But it had taken a terrible turn, and Madame Giry had been helpless to stop either the obsessive love that Erik bore Christine, or the way Christine seemed to have allowed her soul to be possessed by the music that he had given her. She had never dared to think that Christine might have come to love Erik, and she had rejoiced when Christine and Raoul had come to an understanding.

The Viscomte would take her away, she had thought, and Erik would forget in time. Peace and order would be restored.

But things never happened as they should, and she could see now with her own eyes that Christine loved Erik as much as he loved her.

She had cried for the first time in years when she told Raoul of the circumstances which had brought Erik to this place.

And now, Antoinette Giry cried again, for the little boy who had finally become a man, and who now had come to the end of his power over mankind, for the love which he had finally won and would now never see fulfilled, and for Christine.

For as she looked up and met Christine's tear-filled eyes, she saw mirrored in them her own heartbreak of so many years before. The eyes of the two women met, and Madame Giry cried out to Christine silently.

_"Save him, Christine! I cannot help him any longer, but you can. For God's sake, Christine, save him!"_

-

"_Erik, I love you."_

He did not turn to look at her. He could not, or all of his will would leave him, and he would stay with her, to the ruin of them both. He did not turn, but he murmured softly, so softly that only she could hear him.

"I know, Christine. I know."

-

Christine looked down at the crowd, seeing them fully for the first time, and she saw Madame Giry at the edge. Her eyes met those of the ballet mistress, and to her amazement, she saw that the older woman's eyes were full of tears.

_Madame Giry loved him, too, _Christine realized.

"_Save him, Christine! For God's sake, save him!"_

Where had that come from?

"Nothing can save him now." She bowed her head, not wanting to see him taken from her. "I can't save him, Madame. No one can."

Or could she?

What weapons did she have that could stop a crazed mob in their lust for revenge?

She closed her eyes, praying for an answer to come before it was too late.

An image came unbidden to her mind, a vision of herself on the stage, hundreds of people held in her thrall simply by the sound of her voice.

_Her voice._

The gift that Erik had given her could be now used to save him.

She reached out and grasped Erik's arm, stopping him.

He turned to her in frustration. "Let me go, Christine! Must you make this harder?"

"Don't go down there, Erik. I think I know how to stop them."

"Christine, you'll be killed!"

She looked up at him, love showing plainly in her eyes. "If I am, then it will be no worse a fate than living all of my life without you. Trust me, my love. Trust me."

_Trust me._

Erik nodded. "If it is the only way, Christine."

"It is." She touched his face lovingly. "You have done and risked so much for me, Erik. It is my turn, now."

And then, as Erik remained on the dais, she descended the steps towards a bewildered crowd.

* * *

**Cliffhanger, no? I'll have the next chapter posted tomorrow, hopefully.**


	8. Prima Donna

**Author's Note: Well, here is the chapter you've all been waiting for. I appreciate all the reviews thus far, and would especially appreciate reviews on this chapter. Enjoy, and I hope that this fits how you all were hoping for it to turn out! **

**-**

**Chapter 10: Prima Donna**

The simple switch of sacrifices halted the crowd for a moment. They had come for the monster, and the angel approached instead. They were momentarily at a loss.

"Come down, Phantom!" someone screamed from the crowd, and they began to boil over again. "Come down and face your fate! Don't send her in your stead, murderer!"

Christine closed her eyes. _Lord, give me strength._

Everything depended on her now. If she failed, it was all over. Only hours before, Raoul's fate had rested in her hands as she stood on this same shore. Now, Erik's fate rested there.

"The trap for him is set, and waits for its prey!"

The people halted again, startled at the sound of her voice.

"You have come here in pursuit of your deepest fear, that fear which has till now been silent…silent…"

They had heard this before, only a few hours before, and Christine's lovely voice held them captive as it had done before.

_Where to go now?_ Christine closed her eyes, searching for the words that would persuade this mob to leave.

_Don't think, Christine. The mind is the killer of the soul. Let it come, let it flow. The music will come from your soul. You need only let it go._

Erik had said those words to her, years before, during one of their lessons. Had he ever thought that one day his lessons to his young ingénue would prove the saving of his once wretched existence?

-

Madame Giry saw Christine speak softly to Erik, then descend the steps of the dais, and she felt hope renewed.

She saw the crowd's reaction to Christine's first words, and she felt suddenly that perhaps all was not lost.

"Not all the furies of Hell can overcome love." She pulled little Meg close to her, guarding her in the case of the crowd's rioting. "If anyone can save him now, it is you, Christine."

-

Christine turned to look at Erik, and she found her next words. The crowd was restless, and she began again, banishing fear lest it cause her voice to shake, her words to falter. Her strength was all that could save Erik and her. Strength for him, who had none of his own left, to fight the battle which he could no longer win. Slowly, she began to sing.

"In sleep he sang to me, in dreams he came…that voice which calls to me, and speaks my name. And do I dream again—for now I find, the Phantom of the Opera is there, inside my mind!

-

Erik joined her, softly, singing quietly to himself. The mob could not hear him, but he prayed Christine could, and perhaps it would help her.

"Sing once again with me, a strange duet…my power over you grows stronger yet. And though you've turned from me, to glance behind—the Phantom of the Opera is there, inside your mind!"

-

Christine did hear him, and her voice grew in intensity. The trembling left her, and she found the words, altering them to fit her plea to the crowd.

"Those who have seen his face draw back in fear…I am the mask he wears, it's him you hear. His spirit and my voice, in one combined—the Phantom of the Opera is there, inside your mind!"

She heard soft murmurs in the crowd, and she changed the song, her voice softening and the melody changing.

"Stranger than you dreamt it, can you even bear to look or bear to think of him, that loathsome gargoyle who burns in hell but secretly longs for heaven, secretly…secretly…"

She didn't dare look at Erik. She knew what pain would be on his face when he heard his words of self-condemnation coming from her lips. _Trust me, Erik,_ her heart begged.

"Fear can turn to love, you'll learn to see, to find the man behind the monster, this repulsive carcass who seems a beast but secretly dreams of beauty, secretly…secretly…"

The crowd stirred, but a calmer air seemed to fall over them. Christine returned to familiar territory. _The point of no return…_

"Past the point of no return, the final threshold—the bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn! We've passed the point of no return…"

Christine searched their faces, and she saw too much anger and unrest still. Tears filled her eyes. She was so close to failing, so close. _One more try…_

Christine's voice changed, softened, became tremulous with sadness, and she extended her hands to the crowd, begging them, pleading with them.

"I gave you my music—made your souls take wing. And now, look how you've repaid me…denied me and betrayed me…"

She paused, speechless for a moment. _This is what Erik meant when he spoke of the music coming from my soul._ She had no idea where the words had come from.

"I was bound to love him, when first I heard him sing…Erik…"

She dropped her hands, and whispered softly, so softly that she was not even sure that anyone but herself heard.

"Must you take him from me? The only crime he ever committed was to love me…all others sprang from that one. He has been punished all his life…all he ever desired was love…can you in good faith punish him for wanting that which every human heart desires?"

The strength seemed to leave her, and she dropped to her knees on the shore, tears flowing anew. Madame Giry tore herself from the fringes of the crowd and rushed to Christine's side, gathering the girl up in her arms and holding her gently, whispering comforting words to her.

-

There were few things the people of France loved more than a good tragedy, drama or romance. Faithful patrons of the arts they were, and the pitiful nature of the young woman who had stood before them and now lay crumpled on the shore affected all of them.

The women were the first to speak of leaving. But as Christine's music progressed, even the men began to toss down their weapons and suggest that they go. That sentiment spread through the crowd, until suddenly they had switched sides almost unanimously.

"Let's go," was heard from several raised voices. "The poor creature has suffered enough."

A murmur of dissension sprang up, and it seemed that the spell was broken, but Madame Giry suddenly looked up angrily and called out to them:

"How many nights did you sit in the theater of the Opera Populaire and listen as Miss Daae gave you her heart and soul through her music? What have you given her in return?"

Several of the people agreed, and a ruckus began as the few who still called for Erik's blood waged war with the majority.

"Enough!" the chief of police finally called out. "The man is a murderer, and wanted for many crimes. It is not the will of the people that governs here, it is the law, and the law demands justice! Come down, Erik!"

The mob turned on him and his officers in an instant, and fear showed plainly on the faces of the police. "We can't stop them, sir," hissed one of the officers. "They'll be on us in a moment. Let's give this up. He has Miss Daae, and of her own free will, it's plain to see. He won't murder again, I think."

The chief of police turned to Madame Giry. "If we go, what assurance can you give that this problem won't arise again?"

"I'll answer that."

Erik strode down onto the lakeshore and looked directly into the chief of police's eyes. "Christine was right when she said that all my crimes sprang from love of her. If not for her, you would have all been drowned by now. She stopped me from turning that lever, there," and here he pointed to the apparatus on the wall, "and so doing saved all of your lives. You were my last obstacle to her, and if you leave, I swear to you that so long as Christine is not harmed or threatened, I will never be found guilty of another crime against humanity so long as I live." He smiled. "You see, officer, I never had much love for humanity, or they for me. But Christine has made me a part of what you call humanity, and so if for her sake I must live at peace with them, then I will. You will not find cause to hunt for me again."

Christine's eyes opened and met those of the officer. "Please," she whispered. "Please."

The chief of police hesitated only a moment, and then he nodded. "Let's go!" he called, turning and gesturing for them to leave. "Let's all be gone from this place, monsieurs, and no one will be arrested for rioting!"

Nearly as one, the mob turned and calmly began to head back across the lake. The man who had attacked Christine paused, and the officers wasted no time in arresting him for assault as soon as they recognized him. The chief of police tipped his hat to Christine and Madame Giry. "Good day Miss Daae, Madame." He glanced at Erik. "Take care of her, monsieur. And don't let me hear of your name unfavorably again."

Erik nodded his assent, and then the police left, Christine's attacker in tow.

He knelt and picked her up in his arms. Christine put a hand on his shoulder. "I can stand, Erik."

She stood to her feet, though her hands rested on Erik still for support. She smiled at Madame Giry. "Thank you, Madame."

"But Christine, I did nothing."

Christine smiled knowingly at her former teacher. "Nonetheless, thank you." She turned, and, with a reassuring touch on Erik's arm, walked towards Meg, who launched herself at her friend with a cry.

Erik and Madame Giry were left facing each other. He was the first to speak. "I apologize for what I said earlier, Antoinette. I did not expect to see you with them."

"I know, Erik." Her face was smiling, but her voice was sad. "So Christine loves you, then?"

A smile spread across Erik's face. "You cannot imagine my joy. I thought she had left me…left with the Viscomte…and then she returned. She is an angel, Antoinette, I can't fathom how she could love me, but it is enough that she does."

Madame Giry nodded. "Goodbye, then, Erik."

Erik bent and gallantly kissed the back of her hand. "I hope that this will not be our last meeting, Antoinette."

"You know where to find me, Erik."

He nodded, and smiled at Christine when she returned to his side.

"Come, Meg!" Madame Giry called, and the girl followed, glancing back at Christine. "Goodbye, Christine!" Meg called sadly.

"I'll see you again!" Christine answered. "Never fear, Meg."

The two climbed into the boat that Raoul had docked at the entrance and that Madame Giry had brought over with her and Meg. Madame Giry turned to look at them as they left the shore. Her eyes met Christine's briefly, and then Erik's.

His eyes briefly locked with hers, and a small smile appeared. _Thank you, Antoinette,_ they seemed to say. _Thank you for everything._

And then, the boat slipped under the grate and faded slowly from view, leaving Erik and Christine on the shore.

"We will see them again, won't we, Erik?"

"Of course, Christine."

* * *

**Well, what did you think? The story doesn't end here, although the ending of this chapter is rather final, but I am hoping to take it further into Erik and Christine's new life together. Unless, of course, you wish for it to end. Reviews of this chapter especially will be greatly helpful, and I'd like to know what you thought of how I used the lyrics in Christine's plea to the mob, how I changed Erik's lament at the end of "All I Ask of You" for this purpose, and whether or not the story should continue.**

**Also, if it does continue, the next chapter will be almost, if not entirely, things heating up between Erik and Christine. I'll try to keep it in a PG-13 realm, however.**


	9. Raoul, I've Been There

**Author's Note: Well, I know I promised you guys a E/C chapter, but a reviewer pointed out to me that Raoul is still sitting up in the ruined theater. So this chapter is to deal with Raoul, and the nextwhich is uploaded also, is the E/C chapter. Enjoy.**

**-**

**Chapter 11: Raoul, I've Been There**

Madame Giry and Meg did not take long to ascend from the catacombs into the ruins of the Opera Populaire. Madame Giry stepped into Christine's room, and she could hear through the walls a keening wail. She turned quickly to Meg.

"Go to the foyer and see who is still here, Meg. I'll come for you in a few minutes."

This time, Meg did as her mother asked.

Madame Giry made sure Meg followed her directions, and then she rushed into the theater. She heard loud sobs, and lifting her skirts so as not to trip, hurried up the steps of the stage.

Raoul knelt there, a scrap of stiff pastel fabric held close against his face, tears dripping from his fingers, pressed painfully to his eyes. He called Christine's name again and again, voice weak and broken, and Madame Giry was instantly torn between happiness for Erik and pity for the Viscomte, who had surely never before faced the loss of anything that he wanted.

She knelt beside him, not saying a word, until finally her presence broke through the wall of his grief. Pale and shamefaced, Raoul looked up at her, embarrassment at being seen in such a state plain on his face. His eyes were red rimmed, dark shadows appearing beneath, and Madame Giry thought that she had never seen such a pitiful creature.

What was it about young Christine that drove these men to such grief? Madame Giry shook her head, resting a comforting hand on Raoul's shoulder as she waited for him to collect himself.

"Where is Christine?" He looked up at Madame Giry, hope springing into his eyes. "She is alright, isn't she…where is she?"

Madame Giry closed her eyes for a moment, praying silently for the right words with which to tell Raoul the truth. "She is with Erik." There was no kinder way to say it.

"No." Raoul murmured, then shouted. "No!" He clenched his fist around the mask, slamming his fist against the wood of the stage floor. "She chose me! Christine! Christine!" He fell back into silence, pain etching its way across his face.

"Monsieur de Chagny…" Madame Giry tried, then lapsed into inappropriate, but perhaps under these circumstances, forgivable, informality. "…Raoul. Don't weep for her, Raoul. She has found happiness. I know as well as any what grief you feel, but would you deny Christine happiness after she has known sorrow for so long?"

"What know you of grief?" Raoul cried, forgetting himself in his anguish. "You have everything you could wish for, Madame."

"Not everything." Madame Giry stood, looking distantly across the ruins of the theater, as though looking back across years past. "I once felt loss as keenly as you do now, monsieur. Many years ago, when Meg was but a small child, my husband fell ill and died. It happened so quickly…I was not prepared for it. He was my life, my world, and suddenly, I was left a widow with a small daughter. I was only a few years past twenty…and I thought my life had ended. I didn't sleep for days, food was abhorrent to me. I wanted to die. If not for little Meg, I would have died. I felt just as you do now, monsieur." She turned back to him, her eyes filling with tears. "He was everything to me, just as Christine is to you. But you will learn to live again."

"I don't see how." Raoul said hopelessly, standing to his feet. "Has she no gratitude, Madame Giry? I risked my life to save her from the monster…and she stays with _him!_"

"Is that what you want from her, monsieur? Gratitude?"

"No." Raoul acknowledged. "I want her love."

"That you have." Madame Giry said. "You must understand, Raoul. She loves you. But she belongs with Erik. She belongs _to_ Erik. If she had gone with you, she might have found joy, and you would both have shared love. But her soul would have died, for nothing can long survive without its mate. She would have become a mere shell of the Christine you love. Erik is her soul's mate, monsieur, and they cannot live one without the other."

Raoul straightened, a measure of composure returning to him. "I suppose I must be resigned to it, then."

"Be patient, monsieur. You loved life before Christine returned to it. You will find that love again."

Raoul nodded, and, still clutching the mask, strode down the stairs. Madame Giry watched him go, and followed not long after. The last few minutes had done little to set her heart at ease. There was a look in Raoul's eyes that frightened her. She wished to God that Christine had remained faithful in her engagement to the Viscomte, but there was no changing what had been done.

She only prayed that this was to be the end of the horrors that had plagued them for so long.


	10. Sweet Seduction

**Chapter 8: Sweet Seduction**

Erik watched the lake for some time, his thoughts only just beginning to find some manner of order. When he turned, he saw that Christine was gone, and fear sparked for a moment.

_Relax. _His mind chided him silently. _She loves you, she said. She won't leave again._

Erik only wished he could be certain.

Banishing such troubling thoughts, he turned and strode up the shore, over the dais and into the bedroom where Christine had slept on her last night spent in the labyrinth.

She was there, her fingers trying unsuccessfully to unhook the buttons that secured the elaborate gown. She turned at the sound of his footsteps, her face flushing with embarrassment. "My fingers..." she held her shaking hands out for him to see. She was strangely thankful for the lingering fear that caused her hands to tremble so. For some strange reason, she did not want Erik to know that she could not undress herself past her outer garments, that all the girls who were old enough to wear corsets had to help each other dress and undress. That which had been a normal part of life seemed suddenly like an unforgivable weakness.

Erik glanced over her trembling form, concern for her well-being instantly banishing all other thoughts. The gown was soaked up to her knees at least. The chill air in the catacombs was not conducive to anything drying quickly, and her garments were still wet from the events that had led her to step into the lake. "We must get you dry." He gently put her hands at her sides and stepped behind her, deftly undoing the buttons of the dress.

Christine realized then the state of the beautiful gown, and she blushed further. "Erik, I'm so sorry…the dress…it must be ruined."

He shook his head. "Never fear, Christine. Once it dries out, it should be fine." At the moment, he couldn't have cared less about the gown, though it had cost him a generous amount of coin.

He quickly drew the dress over her shoulders, gritting his teeth in anger when he saw the torn sleeve. Whatever fate awaited that man at the hands of the law, it was bound to be kinder than what he himself would have done had the police not taken matters to hand. People called _him_ monster, while that man lived among them, as one of them…he pushed the image of Christine's attacker from his mind quickly.

Erik wasted no time in lighting a fire. The warm glow instantly made the dark room more friendly, and Christine felt herself relaxing. Erik arranged the dress in front of the flames so that it would dry, and he returned to her.

Christine was fumbling with her lacings, knowing it was futile, but determining to try anyway. She stopped suddenly when she felt Erik's hands cover hers.

"Let me do that."

Christine started to protest, but Erik hushed her. "I'm not entirely ignorant of women's doings, Christine. You can't unlace that cage anymore than you can lace it up." He set to work on the corset, willing his mind not to wander, his hands not to stray. He had dreamed of this so often, of standing in this very bedroom with this same woman, undressing her as he was now doing…and then…

He shook his head to clear it, his fingers moving faster. He knew he needed to finish this task and leave before he lost what reason was left to him. Surely she would not welcome his touch, not as they were now. The Viscomte would surely never have touched her before they were legally wed…

Christine caught her breath in her throat, willing the trembling to leave her limbs. Erik's strong hands pulling at the laces on her corset only intensified her longing to have those hands leave the corset and touch her instead.

Erik finished the laces and removed the corset, his hands grazing her hips as he removed the restrictive garment. Christine drew in her breath sharply at his touch, and Erik gritted his teeth. His hands lingered, almost involuntarily, on her waist, and he felt Christine tremble.

_Did she tremble from desire or from fear?_

With a curse, Erik spun away from her, willing his blood to stop racing so. He threw open the wardrobe and drew a heavy velvet robe from behind the dresses. He handed it without a word to Christine, and she pulled it over her chilled flesh, something akin to hurt in her dark eyes.

_Coward,_ his mind taunted him. _You were happy to undress her a moment ago, and now you give her something else to put on. You'd rather touch her in your dreams than in reality, wouldn't you? You're afraid, just as you always have been. Afraid of the look in her eyes, afraid that she'll shrink from you and leave you cold and wanting, as she has so many nights before in your dreams. _

He stood, riveted, unable to look away from her. Christine felt his eyes on her and raised her own to meet his gaze, and felt a tremor of fear run through her at the desire plain in his eyes. She was not ignorant of the ways between men and women. Nearly all of the older girls in the _corps de ballet_ had had lovers, and they had regaled the pre-teens with stories of their escapades. None of them had believed for a moment that Christine's Angel of Music was really an angel. There had been no end to the lewd remarks from the other girls about her "Angel", and it wasn't until Madame Giry—the only one who knew the truth and believed Christine—had threatened the others with punishment that they had finally left her alone.

Christine had never taken a lover as the other girls had…Raoul had been the first man to ever attract her attention. She was certain he would have married her before ever daring to touch her intimately, and Christine had wondered often if that dark sensuality which surrounded Erik was part of what so inexplicably drew her to him. Surely he would have no such reservations…

…or would he? He stood, gazing at her hungrily, but he made no further move. Christine turned away for a moment, and reached for a glass of wine that stood on the bedside table. Perhaps it would calm her nerves…

She had hardly taken a sip when she felt Erik's hands about her waist again. She stilled, the glass at her mouth, and she slowly set it down again. She turned in his arms, her eyes glazed with desire, her lips stained with the blood red liquid.

The force with which his lips met hers startled and frightened Christine. She returned the kiss fervently, her arms going about his neck. Erik pulled her tightly against him, and she moaned against his mouth, her body afire. "Erik…" she murmured, tangling her fingers in his hair and holding his lips to hers.

Her hands drifted over his face, his neck, down the part of his chest that was exposed, and her fingers began to unhook the buttons of his shirt, her mouth leaving his to trail kisses down his neck.

Erik drew a ragged breath, his hands coming up to close over hers. "Christine…" He pulled away from her, his heart racing. "Christine, I should leave…you need your rest…"

"I'm not tired." She moved towards him again, shocking herself with her boldness, but there was no reasoning with the desire that was racing madly through her veins.

Erik caught her wrists before she could touch him again. "Christine, if I stay here any longer…"

"I know." She whispered this as she wrapped her arms about his neck, brushing his skin lightly with her fingertips. Christine lifted her mouth to his ear. "Before you brought me here the first time, I had never dreamed such things existed. When you touched me, I felt things I had never felt before."

Erik groaned. "Christine…"

She continued as though he had not even spoken. "All I wanted tonight, when I knew it was you and not Piangi who sang the part of Don Juan, was for the opera to be over, to take my bows and then disappear with you."

Erik remembered vividly how it had felt to hold her, to touch her. He had been vitally glad when he had seen the recognition on the Viscomte's face, had relished the feel of Christine's body against his all the more.

Christine pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Don't go, Erik. Please…" The last word was a mere whisper as she drew her lips along the column of his throat, her tongue barely fluttering against his skin, and desire exploded in Erik's blood.

He spun her around in his arms, pulling her against him as he had done on the stage, drawing his hand across her cheek and down her throat, to the serge of her chemise. Her heart beat wildly beneath his touch, and he lifted her into his arms, the heavy robe falling from her shoulders. The room was warm now, and she did not protest, her hands remaining locked around him even as he lay her down on the bed.

How could this be anything but a beautiful dream? Some perverse corner of his mind insisted that it must be a dream, that he would wake any moment now, as he had done so many times before, to a cold bed and hollow pleasures.

Christine leaned towards him and met his mouth with hers again. Erik let his tongue slide between her lips, parting them, and her mouth opened willingly, allowing him to kiss her deeply, moaning as he rubbed his lips gently against hers. Her hands unlocked from behind his neck and moved to the buttons of his shirt again, and he did not stop her. She worked her way down the shirt, her lips never leaving his except to catch her breath. Her hands slid inside the fabric, caressing his warm flesh, sliding up his chest and over his broad shoulders to push the material free.

She moved as though she knew what she was doing, as though she was not as innocent as he, but he knew differently. Knowledge came from many sources, but passing glances of lovers trysting in the halls or the explicit romance novels that he knew she and Meg had read together secretly and guiltily many a night did not account for the way her hands seemed made to touch his flesh, the way her lips interlocked so comfortably with his, the way their bodies fit together as though they had been created for each other. Her faintest touch and slightest move drove him to the very brink of self-control.

There was no stopping now, Erik knew, his body demanded satisfaction, fulfillment of the many lonely nights he had spent dreaming of just such a moment as this. Nevertheless, he stilled his hands as they moved towards the ties of her chemise, and he looked down at her, his eyes serious. "Are you sure, Christine?"

She moved to answer him with another kiss, but he cupped her chin in his hand and brought her eyes to meet his. "Are you sure?" he repeated.

Christine hesitated only a second before nodding. "I dreamed of this, too, Erik." She reached up to touch his face. "This is what I want—have wanted…since the first night I spent here. I have spent so many sleepless nights longing for your touch, Erik." She took his hand and guided it slowly up her body over the thin fabric of her garment. He groaned softly, and she pressed a kiss to his fingers. "There has never been anyone but you."

He reached for the ties again, gently tugging the fabric over her shoulders and away from her body, finally flinging it to the floor. He paused a moment, and looked down at her, skin glowing golden in the flickering firelight. His lips traveled a languorous path over her body, beginning by brushing gently against her mouth, down her throat, lingering on the softness of her breasts. His fingers traced her outline, moved over her hips, slid up the insides of her thighs.

"Erik…" Christine whispered his name, her voice tremulous with desire.

He brought his fingers higher, found her center, and Christine arched her back, crying out in pure pleasure.

Erik brought his mouth down on hers, rubbing his lips gently against her mouth in tandem with his fingers. With his other hand, he pulled his trousers roughly from his body, freeing his aching flesh. Christine brought her hands up to caress his chest, her hands roving over his body as he had done to her. Her fingers brushed against him, and he gasped, the need to have her suddenly overpowering all other desires.

He moved between her legs, and the touch of her flesh against his was too sweet for words. Christine kissed him again, a small cry of pain eliciting from her lips as he pressed forwards, but when he stilled suddenly, afraid that he had hurt her badly, she only shook her head and arched her back sensuously, destroying all reservation.

The firelight flickered over their bodies as the two made love, the silence of the catacombs winding around them. For a moment, as Christine's hand found Erik's, and her fingers intertwined with his, Erik felt as though they were the only two people in the world. He kissed her again, deeply, and Christine's voice trembled and cracked as she cried out his name through their kiss.

His slow movements changed pace, and then he was shaking suddenly above her. He moved once more and she began to tremble as well, a slow, soft moan eliciting from her lips.

All his muscles were weak as he rolled over to lie beside her, gathering her into his arms. Neither was able to speak for several minutes, the magnitude of what they had done settling upon them.

"Is it like that for everyone?" Christine asked suddenly, her innocence showing through once more in the aftermath.

"I don't know." Erik admitted. "I suppose so."

She was suddenly very sleepy, and she nestled against him, sweat-slicked flesh against sweat-slicked flesh, her hair spilling over his shoulder and chest as she listened to the racing of his heartbeat. "I love you, Erik."

His whole world seemed to open up before him with those simple words, spoken so sweetly, so sincerely.

She was already asleep when he replied in kind, but he would tell her again in the morning.

And for as many mornings after as he was granted in this life.


	11. Why Have You Brought Me Here

**Author's Note: Well, I was little disappointed that not many people reviewed the last chapter. I hope all of you liked it and weren't offended, I tried to keep it relatively mild. Anyway, here is the next chapter. Tell me what you think, as always, please. Enjoy!**

**-**

**Chapter 13: Why Have You Brought Me Here**

Erik awoke to the sweetest sight he had ever beheld. Nestled against him, her brunette curls spilling over the pillow, one hand entangled with his and the other thrown up lazily over her head, lay an angel. She murmured something softly in her sleep, and Erik felt himself begin to tremble all over again when he realized it was his name.

But with the knowledge that this beautiful, angelic woman called Christine Daae was now his came the frightening question of where they should go from here. He could hardly ask her to spend the rest of her years—there being, God willing, many—in this cold solitude that he had for so long called home.

But was he ready to take his place among society? Could he return to the world after having shunned it for so long? And would the general members of humanity even accept him?

These questions threatened to shatter the peace that had enveloped him over the past hours. He had slept as he could not remember having slept in many years—for the first time since childhood in a bed and not in his cold coffin.

He resolved to burn the thing. Coffins were for the dead, and he was ready and willing to join the living now. Ghost and Phantom no longer was he.

An angel had called him by name.

-

The night had not been spent so restfully by the others connected with the tragedy of the Opera Populaire.

Several people had been injured in the chandelier crash, but no one had been killed. The Paris firemen had done an excellent job of containing the blaze. Over half of the opera house remained standing. Unfortunately, the parts that had been destroyed were those most vital to the Populaire's continuing success. Dressing rooms and rehearsal wings could be done without. But the grand foyer, the ballroom and the theater were all ruined, and they were all the most necessary and the most expensive both. The insurance from the destroyed parts would not nearly be enough to repair it.

Andre and Firmin were both enraged when the police force returned without the Phantom. There was nothing they could do, but they both swore that they would kill the man with their own two hands if he ever dared breach the surface again. To which, the chief of police politely informed them that the law had acquitted Erik of all crimes, and that they both would be answerable for any damages done to the person of said Erik.

Andre and Firmin wondered if perhaps tickets to Australia were really such a bad thing after all.

La Carlotta, once the grandest diva in all of Paris, had been forcibly removed from the burning opera house, screaming and crying for the dead Piangi.

Whether or not Erik had meant to kill him was a question unanswered, but the infallible Opera Ghost had done a fairly poor job if that had truly been his intent. Piangi lived, but his Signora Guidicelli was in such a terrible state of emotional breakdown that the doctors who were tending her wondered if she would retain enough sanity to realize that her lover had survived.

Piangi was also being tended in a local hospital for a broken rib and injuries sustained from the attempted strangulation. Intentions of murder or no, the Phantom rarely seemed to make provision for a reputation of gentleness.

-

Christine awoke with a small sigh, batting her eyes delightfully as she turned to face Erik. Touching his face lovingly, she pressed a light kiss to his lips.

Erik pulled her closer to him, tracing a slow finger down Christine's thigh and smiling at the shiver that passed through her body.

"Enough of that, my love." She shook her head at him. "There are things to be done."

Erik groaned playfully as she rolled out of bed and hastily pulled on the heavy robe that lay crumpled on the floor beside the bed. He remained where he was, content to watch her as she moved about the room, lighting a fire and rummaging through the wardrobe as calmly as though she had gone through the motions a hundred times before.

He allowed his mind to wander, dreaming of a day when she would awake in their bedroom, the bedroom that they would share as husband and wife, and bustle about their house instead of this dank labyrinth. Perhaps there would be children as well…children who would love him as Christine did, who would look upon him without fear…

"Erik, could you help me with this?"

Christine's voice broke into his daydream as she walked towards him, now clad in a fresh chemise, her corset in one hand and the robe in the other.

Erik obliged, first putting on the robe and then beginning to follow Christine's directions on how to lace up the corset.

"You'll have to pull harder, Erik. It must be very tight."

Erik grimaced. He hated the thought of her wearing this, hated the knowledge that he was hurting her when he pulled the laces tight. He hurried through the task, though he allowed his hands to linger on her waist and shoulders when he buttoned up the back of the simple gown that she had chosen from the wardrobe.

The idea that he was allowed to touch her, allowed to cause his hands to linger on her body, was so foreign and new to him that it was a cause of no small amount of delight. He kissed her again when she turned to face him, and the delight only increased when she kissed him back with equal fervency.

It was still so hard to believe that this was not a dream.

Christine broke the kiss sooner than Erik desired, and turned her attention to finding pins for her hair.

"Leave it down." Erik suggested after several moments of watching her rummage on the floor for pins that had been carelessly thrown aside the night before, and laughed at the expression on her face.

"I can't." was her only reply.

"Why not?" Erik asked stubbornly, though he knew perfectly well why not. "Your hair is lovely when it is loose, Christine."

"Are you saying that it isn't lovely however I wear it?" she teased, picking up the last of the pins and setting to work on her tangled curls. "It's simply not proper, Erik."

"Propriety isn't a word often spoken down here." Erik replied, bending to trail his lips along the back of her neck.

Christine tried to conceal the tremor that passed through her body at his touch—unsuccessfully. She could only imagine what triumphant look must be on his face at achieving exactly his desired result. "Honestly, Erik…look what a mess you've made of my hair."

"As I recall, you rather enjoyed it." He wrapped an arm about her waist and ran the other hand through the tangles of her hair, bringing the delightfully scented curls to his nose and dropping his mouth dangerously close to her ear. "As did I."

Christine sighed, abandoning her hair for a moment and resting in his embrace. "Erik, I have to go back to the opera house for a little while."

Erik stiffened, fear shooting through him. He pulled away, and Christine's heart leapt into her throat. After what had passed between them the night before…he couldn't possibly think…

His eyes told her plainly that he did. Christine sighed in frustration and sorrow. How long would it take to prove to him that she truly loved him, and that because of that love, she would never leave him again? How long would it take to overcome years of self-condemnation and feelings of unworthiness?

She put her arms around his neck, running her fingers lightly through his hair and looking up into his eyes. "I'm not going back to Raoul, Erik. I won't ever go back to him. But I need to know how the Opera Populaire fared, I need to get my things, and I need to talk to Andre and Firmin. I am still in their employ, whether the theater is completely destroyed or not. That place was my life, Erik. I need to know how things are going to turn out. I'm perfectly willing to spend the rest of my days here with you, but I can't disconnect myself entirely from the outer world, Erik. I just can't."

_Do you end your days with me?_

Erik stopped her with a finger to her lips. "I'm sorry, Christine. You won't be spending the rest of your life in this…"

_Cold and dismal place…_

"…place. I'm going to find a home for us, Christine, where we can live as a part of the outside world. I can't condemn you to live here forever. This place has been my Hell for as long as I can remember, it seems."

Christine felt pure joy tear through her being, and she kissed Erik fervently, joyfully. He was going to give her what she had dreamed of for so long—the life of a normal woman—and that life would include him.

"I've dwelt so long in Hell, Christine," Erik murmured, holding her to him. "Find us a place in Heaven, my angel."

-

A while later, after they had breakfasted, Christine was ready to return to the Opera Populaire. Erik had gone back for the boat while she had prepared the meal, and now he sat at the organ, rifling through pages of sheet music.

Christine paused at the edge of the lake. "Come with me, Erik?"

Erik stood, torn. He didn't want to see the ruin that he had created, but neither did he want to let his beloved Christine face the ravages of the place where she had spent most of her life alone.

Love won out, and he turned away to smooth the leather mask onto his face before stepping into the boat with Christine.

She frowned when she saw the mask, but she said nothing. Perhaps one day he would be able to go about in public without the unfeeling scrap of clothing that had become his shield against the tortures of humanity.

But for now, it was his only comfort besides her love. She had no wish to deny him either.

-

They entered the Opera Populaire through her dressing room, as Raoul and Madame Giry had. Christine paused, her hand going to her throat as memories assailed her. Had it only been last night that she had sat before that very mirror, touching her skin with perfume and enduring the pain of an even tighter lacing than usual? Had it only been last night that she had prepared for the greatest performance of her career?

It felt a lifetime ago.

She took Erik's hand as they left the room, her heart beating fearfully. What would they see when they entered the theater?

Nothing could have prepared her for the ruins before them. She stood at the doors, her body trembling, tears welling in her throat and eyes. Beside her, she heard Erik give a convulsive sob.

"Oh, Christine," he cried, tearing his hands from hers and burying his face in them. "Christine, why have you brought me here?"


	12. Reconciliation?

**Author's Note: I know that so far, the story has been fairly lacking in Erik-rages, and that some of you may be missing this. Never fear, the fairy-tale-ish-ness will only continue for a couple more chapters, and then a measure of angst will return to the story.**

**As far as this chapter goes, I've always seen Andre and Firmin as being something of the comic relief for Phantom (asides from our beloved Carlotta, of course!) I hope I've been true to that here. **

**Review, as always! Enjoy!**

**-**

**Chapter 14: Reconciliation?**

"Wait."

Madame Giry held up a hand, stopping the procession of herself, the Viscomte de Chagny, Andre and Firmin to the managers' office for a meeting on the future of the damaged opera house.

They stopped, Andre and Firmin both with a look of frustration on their faces. "What is it, Madame? We don't have all day."

Madame Giry turned and headed for the wide doors that led into the theater. Confused, the three men followed her. They soon heard what had stopped Madame Giry—the sound of racking sobs coming from the theater. Curious, they entered behind her, and stopped in their tracks.

Near the stage stood Miss Daae, holding the bowed figure of a man in her arms—a man who was sobbing violently.

-

Never in all her days with Erik had Christine ever heard him apologize for any wrong that he had done. In her heart of hearts, she knew that he felt a deep sorrow for the lives that had been ended and ruined because of him—but never had he vocalized it.

The sight of the ruined opera house alone would have broken his heart. But the devastating factor in it all was that it was his doing. And this was what he sobbed out brokenly as Christine tried in vain to comfort him.

"Such a fool…such a fool, Christine." He clung to her like a child, burying his face in her shoulder so that he would not see the ravages of his opera house.

"It is my fault that it is destroyed…my fault, Christine…this place that I built, that you loved…this place is what our lives were built around. What will we do now?"

"It is only a place, Erik." Christine said, trying to soothe him. Frustrated tears burned behind her eyes, but she held them back valiantly. She would cry for the ruins of her home and the broken dreams later. "It is only a place."

The words were hollow. She knew that it was so much more than a place. Erik interred a part of his soul into everything that he created. It was one of the qualities that drew her to him. She prayed that it would not now be his undoing.

She heard footsteps and looked up to see Madame Giry enter. To her dismay, Raoul followed, Andre and Firmin close behind.

She saw Raoul's features twist angrily when he saw who it was that she held in her arms. She saw Andre and Firmin clench their fists and take a step forwards, then halt as if remembering something. She saw Madame Giry's face crumple and her eyes mist over.

Madame Giry alone understood.

"Erik." She brought her mouth close to his ear, whispering. "Erik, you must pull yourself together. We have visitors."

Erik straightened, his hand automatically going to his mask to smooth it. With his other hand, he wiped the lingering tears from his cheek and ran his fingers through his hair in an attempt to make himself presentable. In another man, this might have seemed unforgivably vain and womanish. In Erik, it seemed only natural.

He turned and offered a tight smile to the three men and a warmer glance to Madame Giry.

"Good morning."

-

"I want to kill him." Andre growled under his breath to Firmin.

"So do I. But I prefer to keep my relations with Madame Guillotine those of the distant nature, Andre."

"So…what shall we do?"

"Grovel."

The two men offered hands and smiles to Erik, acting as though everything were perfectly normal. Christine smothered an entirely inappropriate smile as she watched her employers force down their obvious distaste for Erik. She glanced towards Madame Giry and saw that her eyes were sparkling with uncalled-for merriment, also.

Raoul, however, made no move to speak to or shake hands with Erik. He devoted his attention to Christine, his eyes drinking her in. If only she would speak...he felt that he would give his very soul to hear her lovely voice again.

He would gladly burn in hell if it meant he might hold her again, kiss her again. His eyes drifted over her body, and he fought back the urge to kill Erik then and there. His traitorous mind wondered if the monster had claimed her yet, and he forced that thought from his mind as completely ludicrous. Certainly Christine would never…

Erik's voice broke into his thoughts. "Monsieur Andre, Monsieur Firmin, I wish to extend my apologies for the disaster I have caused."

Andre cleared his throat. "Well, Monsieur…Erik, is it?" Erik nodded, and Andre continued. "Monsieur Erik, your apologies are accepted, but I am afraid they do nothing to improve our current situation. Your opera was quite expensive, and the families of those who were injured in the chandelier crash are demanding medical compensation, as is Piangi's family and La Carlotta herself. There will simply be no money left to rebuild. I'm afraid our days as the managers of the Opera Populaire, and the days of the Populaire itself, are finished."

"Quite the contrary, monsieurs." Erik said.

Andre and Firmin looked momentarily at a loss. Erik continued.

"I have amassed quite a fortune over the years. Monsieur Lefevre paid me 20,000 francs a month for several years, and you yourselves paid me the same for the past few months. I have hardly spent any of it. Here is what I offer, gentlemen."

Andre and Firmin both instantly adopted wary expressions. "You may be rich, monsieur, but you underestimate the expense involved. The insurance will cover part of it, and Monsieur le Viscomte will also assist as our continuing patron. If it were only the opera house, we might manage. But the compensations that the families are demanding—they are monumental, monsieur! And La Carlotta!"

Erik waved for them to be silent, his usual aplomb settling over his features and disguising his sorrow.

"I will pay Piangi's medical expenses myself. They cannot be too great, as I failed to take the time to properly dispose of him, thank God. I will also compensate the families of those who were injured in the crash and the fire. I will give you the money and you may send it to them in your names, which will benefit the Populaire. I will also donate money to help rebuild this place, and will help to redesign any parts of the structure which may need it. As you recall, gentlemen, I built this place originally. It should be little difficulty. The remainder of my wealth I intend to use to buy a modest home for Christine and myself where we can live near this opera house. You may continue to let it be rumored that you have a ghost or no, whatever you wish, but I will no longer be residing beneath the Populaire. If Christine wishes, I am more than inclined to allow her to continue in her place here. In fact, since Signora Guidicelli is no longer in the condition to perform, Christine should be afforded even more opportunities. In exchange for all of this, I ask only that you help us to become established in society. I do not wish for Christine to suffer from this."

Erik finished his speech, taking Christine's hand in his own to emphasize his point. "It is your choice, gentlemen."

Andre looked wary still, but Firmin spoke up after a few seconds deliberation. "I think that perhaps we have been blind after all, but not in the manner that the Viscomte seemed to think. Your fearful Opera Ghost has turned out to be a man of the most amiable nature. If Andre will agree, we accept your offer, Monsieur Erik."

Andre nodded his assent, and the men shook hands. Firmin turned to Christine. "Do you still wish to perform with us? Your talent is undeniable, Miss Daae. It would be a shame to waste it." He glanced nervously at Erik, but Erik said nothing, only looked down at Christine and awaited her answer.

Christine's heart felt as though it might take wings and fly from her chest. Oh, surely God had smiled upon them this day! Not only was she to be given the life of which she had always dreamed, a life that would be spent with Erik, but she was also to continue at the Opera Populaire—permanently in Carlotta's place! It was as though all her dreams were coming to rest at once, and the only darkening was a small shudder as a perverse whisper darted through her mind.

_Never have your dreams come true for long, Christine. This happiness that you have found is too sublime to last. _

She forced the darkness from her mind.


	13. Matters of Business

**Author's Note: Thanks to all the reviewers! I've gotten some good ideas from your feedback! I hope you enjoy this chapter.**

**To monroe-mary: I appreciate the review. I'm glad that no one seems to have minded Chap 12. I thought, too, that the police gave up kind of quickly on Erik, but as far as the mob goes—the French have always been suckers for beautiful crying women.:) Even the mob after Louis XVI shut up when Marie Antoinette came out! And the police were just scared.;) As far as Andre and Firmin—they haven't really forgiven him, they don't like him any more than they liked Carlotta, but see him as a means to an end, I suppose. Hence the "Grovel.":P Thanks for the input!**

**Also, I went back and altered some of the chapter titles, I'd been trying to name them all after track titles in the movie, but there weren't enough that really fit. I'm trying to do as many as I can like that, but a few just aren't going to work. Thanks to Lily for pointing that out, even though I didn't change the chapter that she pointed out. :) **

**-**

**Chapter Fifteen: Matters of Buisiness**

Andre pulled Erik to the side for a moment and discreetly handed him a small white card.

"On this is the name and address of a close friend of mine. He will be able to procure you a place of residence, and may also be helpful in other matters as well. He will advise you on the best courses to take."

Erik nodded and pocketed the card. Andre returned to the small gathering.

"I trust, Viscomte, that your patronage is not deterred in any way by these new developments?"

Raoul hesitated only a moment. His eyes met those of Christine, and the lack of expression in them cut him more deeply than any words could have.

_She doesn't love you. Madame Giry is wrong. She doesn't love you at all—not even as a childhood friend. It's all over. You've lost and the monster has won. _

Raoul forced away the crippling thoughts. A coolness spread over his face, masking his emotions.

_How appropriate._

"Of course, I will still continue to patronize the Opera Populaire. Also, gentlemen, I can be assured that with my donations—which will, of course, be sizeable—I will be given more place in the decisions made in this house? Or do I presume too much?"

"Of course not, Viscomte!" Andre exclaimed, speaking hastily to assuage any harmed feelings. "Your opinions have always been held in the highest of regards."

"Very well." Raoul tore his gaze reluctantly from Christine. "I must be on my way now, good Monsieurs. I will come by later in the week to look into plans for the rebuilding of the Opera Populaire. I look forward to its continued success." He shook hands with Andre and Firmin and tipped his hat to Madame Giry. "Good day, Madame."

Christine bit her lip as he turned away. "Good day, Monsieur de Chagny!" she called, suddenly overwhelmed with sadness at what seemed the loss of a cherished friendship.

She did not see the tightening of Erik's features when he heard the tremble in her voice, or the worry that sprang up in Madame Giry's eyes.

Raoul paused and turned slightly. "Good day." He then spun on his heel and strode briskly out of the doors to his carriage.

It was not until he was out of earshot that he looked back and whispered: "…Christine."

-

Erik watched the disappearing figure of the boy with no small amount of distaste in his eyes. He turned to Christine, his manner brusque.

"I'm certain that there are many matters of business that you will need to discuss with Monsieur Andre, Monsieur Firmin, and Madame Giry. I will leave you to tend to them while I attend to matters of my own business."

"Erik, I…"

Erik pulled Christine aside. "Never fear, my love." He forced gentleness into his tone, not wishing to frighten her, however black his mood had become. "Monsieur Andre has given me the address of a man who will help in finding us a home. I am going to speak with him. I will return in a few hours."

Christine nodded. "Be careful, Erik."

"Always." He bent and kissed her cheek, then nodded to Andre, Firmin and Madame Giry, and exited the theater.

-

Madame Giry wasted no time. "Andre, Firmin, would you excuse us for a few minutes? Christine will be along to your office presently."

The two men nodded their assent and left.

Madame Giry turned on Christine, her normally gentle expression one of frustration. "What sort of foolish game are you playing, Christine?"

Christine stepped back. "I don't understand."

"Good day, Monsieur de Chagny!" Madame Giry mocked Christine's high-pitched voice. "I won't let you do it, Christine, I won't!"

Christine stood, completely baffled by the woman's outburst. "Madame Giry," she tried gently, "whatever _are_ you going on about?"

Madame Giry took a step closer to Christine. "Erik has lost too much in his life, Christine. He has suffered things no man should ever have to endure. He has been denied love all his life. Now he has found love, and I will _not stand here and see it taken away_!" Tears had begun to run down her face. "I don't care if I burn in hell for it, Christine, I won't see Erik denied again."

Christine understood, then. "Oh, Madame Giry." She put her arms around the sobbing woman. "I'm not going to leave Erik, Madame. Not now…not ever."

"He thinks you will." Madame Giry pulled away from Christine. "Since the day he met you, that alone is what he has feared. He doesn't believe that you will stay with him—he feels too unworthy to trust in your love." She drew in a ragged breath. "Don't think that I do not understand, Christine. I understand more than you will ever realize. I know that you want Raoul's friendship, even if you cannot embrace his love. I know that you want to cling to him as a reminder of the days when you were a carefree child, before your world spun out of control. I know that a part of you wishes that you could go to him and be free of Erik. I also know that you love Erik, too, and that because of that love, so different from the love you hold for Raoul, you will stay with him."

Christine was speechless. She began to stammer some sort of reply, but Madame Giry was not finished.

"I know that you have been bound to Erik since the first day that he began to tutor you. I prayed, Christine, I prayed so long and hard for the Viscomte to take you away the night of the masquerade. I knew that for him to take you away while your love for him was so new, so fresh, was the only way you would ever be free of this place. But he did not, and when I saw you and Erik together on the stage, I feared that it would only end in disaster."

"That's why you took Raoul to the lair." Christine whispered, half-fascinated, half-horrified at the manner in which the normally reserved ballet mistress was now speaking to her.

"Yes." Madame Giry said shortly. "That is why I betrayed the trust of the man who had known love for the first time through me. I betrayed him for _you_, Christine. I betrayed him because I wanted better for you than a life of solitude and darkness. But it seems that your light has triumphed over Erik's years of darkness, Christine. He is trying so hard to become a part of a world that has never shown him anything but contempt and hatred. He is trying because he loves you, Christine, and I fear for him. I fear that the world is too cruel to harbor such love and gentleness as there is in his soul. I fear that once again the world will be deprived of a man who has been gifted with talents nearly inconceivable, because they cannot look past the superficial." She caught Christine's hand in her own. "You are the only one who has been able to bring Erik from his darkness. He loves you, Christine, and that will be either his salvation, or his damnation."

Christine was silent, the burden that Madame Giry's words had placed on her shoulders heavy.

Madame Giry took Christine's face in her hands and turned it so that Christine's eyes were looking directly into her own.

"Erik has found light for the first time in nearly forty years of a miserable existence. God help me, Christine, I will kill anyone who takes it from him."

-

Erik took a deep breath as he dismounted his horse and approached the imposing door of the home to which Andre had directed him. He touched the mask to ensure it was still there, his heart pounding. For a frightening moment, he had an urge to turn, remount Cesar, and return to the opera house. He could tell Christine that he had been unable to find the address…he could return to the labyrinth…there was safety in that solitude…safety that he could never find here.

He summoned up the image of Christine's face for strength, recalled the feel of her lying in his embrace. Behind that door lay the key to the continuation of those newfound realities. After nearly forty years of solitude, the Heavens had at long last smiled on him. Before last night, perhaps he could have turned back and found forgiveness in some new manner, or simply condemned himself to waste away in the darkness. But last night, Christine had given him more than her heart, more than her soul. She had given him her innocence. Last night he had lain in the arms of an angel.

To turn back now would be to spit in the face of God.

-

Business had been bad of late for Jacques de Gaulle. Crime had fallen considerably since Madame Guillotine had been more forceful in her demands for justice, depriving him of his honest living as a lawyer, and there simply wasn't enough poor blackguards looking for false identification to grant him a dishonest living. He had even been considering selling off some of his more considerable properties in Paris and moving away to the country. If not for the charity of his good friend Andre…well, he would have been far gone by now. But the dreadful tragedy of last night was sure to cut off that bit of providence, too, he thought miserably.

A hesitant, then stronger knock at his door caused him to raise his head and peer out the window. A strange masked man was standing at his door. At first, he thought with some measure of fear that some government emissary was coming to haul him away. But the man's mask was white, and he hardly looked imposing. In fact, he looked almost…frightened. As if he needed something desperately.

Jacques rubbed his hands together in glee. Perhaps fortune had decided to take up residence in the de Gaulle home again.

-

"You are acquainted with a Monsieur Andre, I assume?" Erik directed this question to the small man at the desk, lounging comfortably in the armchair that had been proffered. This Jacques de Gaulle seemed more than eager to help him, and Erik wondered if the world had grown kinder in the years that they had spent apart. This man didn't seem at all deterred by him.

_Then again, he has never seen what lies beneath the mask._

Jacques nodded. "Monsieur Andre is a close friend of mine. I am Jacques de Gaulle, as I'm sure he has told you." He proffered a hand, and Erik shook it.

"I am Erik."

Jacques raised an eyebrow. "No surname?"

Erik shook his head. "That is why I am here to see you. You see, Monsieur de Gaulle…"

"Please, call me Jacques."

"Monsieur Jacques, I am a man with no past, at least not one worth mentioning, and a very mediocre present. However, God has recently granted me a future, in the form of my lovely young fiancée. However, I fail to see how I am to wed her without property or even a name to gift her with. Monsieur Andre told me you could assist with both."

Jacques found it difficult to resist the urge to laugh out loud. The man was obviously desperate. Love could be played upon for many a fine coin, and from this man's bearing and dress, he was obviously wealthy. He foresaw a good deal of money returning into his hands. He would finally be able to break free of the bonds of charity, and return to his place in society. His wife would be able to hold her head up in polite society again. The fear of tax collectors at his door would be at long last assuaged. Glory be to God. He made a quick and silent promise to go to Mass that week for the first time in years, and light a candle for his good fortune.

But for now, to the business at hand.

"No surname." Jacques looked for the proper papers and a fresh ink pot and quill. "What was your father's name, Monsieur Erik?"

"I do not know."

Jacques looked perplexed. "Your mother's name, then?"

Erik started to reply, and then stopped. The woman who had borne him, the woman who should have held place as his mother, was not deserving of that holy title. The woman who had borne him was the same woman who had screamed in terror when she first saw him scarred, who had thrust a mask at him and refused his admittance to her presence unless he wore it.

She was the woman who had gifted him with the same present every year for his birthday—a new mask, until at last she had died and he had been turned out onto the streets, to finally become a sideshow freak.

Even the gift of a new mask would have been welcome then, but he had received nothing. He had not been a person, he had been a creature, a monster, a _thing_.

_Things_ did not have birthdays.

No, she was not his mother. When the word 'mother' came to mind, another face came into his head, a face much younger than what _hers_ would have been, the face of a young girl who had rescued him from the most wretched existence mortal man had ever been committed to, and brought him to an existence at least marginally better. The face of a young girl who was now a woman, with a child of her own, but who still loved him nonetheless.

What had her surname been? He closed his eyes, trying to remember. What name had she told him on that night when she had brought him to the cellars where he had spent so many years?

_"You needn't fear me, little boy. I'm just a ballet rat, not of any importance. No one will ever think that it's I who has helped you escape. I'll show you a place where you will be safe."_

_"What is your name?"_

_"You may call me Mademoiselle Couturier. What is _your_ name?"_

_"The Devil's Child."_

_"That is no name."_

_"I have no other."_

_"I will call you Erik, then. I had a little brother named Erik once."_

_"What happened to him?"_

_"He died."_

Erik didn't even realize that tears had begun to fall silently from his eyes at the memory. He looked up to see de Gaulle staring at him strangely, and he cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure.

"Your mother's name, Monsieur?"

"…Couturier. Mademoiselle Couturier."

-

Erik rode back to the opera house at a near full gallop, anxious to see Christine. He barged headlong into Andre's office, causing the manager to become instantly annoyed and Christine to leap up and embrace him, her eyes widening at the ecstatic expression on his face. Madame Giry remained where she was, watching Erik quizzically.

"I've found us a home, Christine!" Erik exclaimed.

"Where? How?"

"Monsieur Andre's friend has agreed to sell me his home. It is not far from here, a modest home, but still very lovely. He has decided to go to the country, and is selling me the house for a decent price. There is a moderate amount of property, and a small stable where two or three horses could be kept. You told me once how you loved to ride with your father, Christine."

Christine nodded, her face alight.

"He has also written up papers giving me a surname, Christine! When we are wed, I will be able to give you my name!"

Christine smiled at him, knowing how much this meant to him. The simple detail of a surname, something which every other inhabitant of France hardly noticed, was something he had never been granted.

"What name will you give to me, Erik?" she asked.

He pulled the precious papers from his pocket and showed them to her. "Couturier. Erik Couturier."

"Seamstress?" Christine chuckled softly at the name, surprised at his choice. She heard a muffled cry behind her, and she turned to see. Her eyes widened in further confusion.

Tears were streaming from Madame Giry's eyes.

* * *

**Awww. Writing this almost made _me_ cry! I'm starting to develop an affinity for Madame Giry...if you hadn't noticed. :)**

**Next chapter in the works!**


	14. An Empress and a Chorus Girl

**Author's Note: It seems I'm developing a pattern here. A chapter every couple of days during the week, and one chapter a day Fri-Sun. **

**Anyway, there is a Leroux tribute in this chapter, brownies to anyone who can find it!**

**-**

**Chapter 16: An Empress and a Chorus Girl**

"Madame Giry, I insist."

She looked up at Erik, fresh tears welling up in her eyes all over again. _How many tears could one person shed in such a short amount of time?_

"Erik, I can't. It's too much."

"Antoinette Giry, look at me."

Madame Giry looked up at Erik, her heart effectively breaking at the tenderness she saw in his eyes. She sent up a silent prayer all over again for Christine to truly see and appreciate the man that she had chosen to spend her life with.

"Erik, your money should be used to build a new life for you and Christine. Monsieur Jules left an inheritance for Meg. It will be enough."

"As I recall, I once promised that little Meg would become an Empress. I fear my tongue may have run away with me, for I have no way of seeing her to that level. But with a generous dowry added to her loveliness, she will be able to catch a man of substance."

Madame Giry started to refuse again, but Erik stopped her.

"When I went to see Monsieur de Gaulle, he asked me for my mother's name to use as a surname. The name I gave him was yours. You are the closest I have ever had to a mother, Antoinette. And that makes my relations with Meg those of a brother. Monsieur Jules died a poor man. This is not charity I am offering. It is a gift, from someone who considers you his only family. I had hoped that the sentiment was mutual."

Madame Giry bit her lip. "It is, Erik. And I accept your _gift_, with much gratitude. I am sure that Meg will feel the same."

"You needn't tell her that the money is mine, unless you wish to. I leave that to your discretion."

"Thank you." Madame Giry smiled up at him.

"No thanks are necessary. Monsieur de Gaulle is setting up an account for me at a local bank. When it is in effect, I will draft you a cheque."

Madame Giry nodded, her eyes still disbelieving.

Erik took her hand and kissed it softly. "I am proud to bear your name, Antoinette Couturier."

She blushed slightly at his use of her maiden name. A dark thought flitted through her mind, and she did not voice it until he had left the room.

Then, she sank into a chair, and closed her eyes, fears and doubts assailing her, and making themselves known in that thought that she now spoke to the empty room.

"I only pray that Christine will feel the same."

"You are a fool, Raoul! A blot on the de Chagny name! As if it isn't bad enough that you were engaged to a chorus girl," Philippe de Chagny spit out the words distastefully "a _dancing girl_, you insist on continuing to pursue her? I for one am thanking God in Heaven that she abandoned you for the creature under the Opera Populaire! A chorus girl, Raoul! What on earth would you have told Mother? What would she have told her friends? That her little boy was going to gift an orphaned _actress_ with the title of Viscomtess? She was wise to keep the engagement secret—I would have broken your neck myself had I heard of it before now!"

"Erik nearly did." Raoul muttered.

"A pity he didn't finish the job." Philippe turned to face his little brother. "When are you going to grow up, Raoul? Even when she was the daughter of Charles Daae, she wasn't suitable. But then she fell to being a chorus girl. It doesn't matter that she's to be a diva now, you might as well be chasing a prostitute!"

He was rewarded for his words with a strong slap across the face.

"Don't ever insult Christine like that again." Raoul's face was red with anger, his hand stinging from the mark he had delivered to his brother's cheek. "Don't ever speak of her in that manner again, or by God, it will be the last thing you ever say."

Philippe laughed, but it was an uneasy laugh. "Does she mean that much to you, little brother?"

"I love her." Raoul declared, lifting his chin defiantly. "You are the Comte, brother, it is your child that will inherit the de Chagny name and property. Whom I marry is of little consequence to the family, whatever you would have me believe. If I cannot have Christine, I will have no one."

Philippe smirked. "I fear you will spend many nights alone then, Raoul. I was in the theater last night. I saw your precious little prima donna then. She's quite taken with this Erik, it seems. I would wish you luck…but it looked to me as though you'll need a great deal more than luck."

Raoul spun angrily on his heel and headed for the door. The last thing he wanted was a reminder of the sensuality that had hung so heavy between Erik and Christine on the stage the night before. When his hand was on the knob, he heard Philippe call out one final stab.

"I always knew your tastes ran a little wild, Raoul. But do you really want to marry a woman who has bedded a monster?"

Raoul turned back from the door, his face murderous. "_She has not!_" he yelled, drawing out the words as he screamed them at his older brother. He drew his rapier from its sheath and took a menacing stride towards Philippe. "Damn you, Philippe, I told you never to speak of her like that again!" He made as if to strike at his brother with the sword, but Philippe unsheathed his own weapon and struck Raoul's from his hand.

"Careful, little brother." He calmly replaced the sword. "I've been indulgent with you thus far, since you obviously have become a fool for love's sake. I've been there myself, Raoul. But you must distinguish the difference between harmless love and foolish obsession. Don't forget, Raoul, I am the Comte, as you were so quick to remind me earlier. Since Father's death, I am the head of this household, and I will not hesitate to put you in your place if need be." He placed a heavy hand on Raoul's shoulder. "This affection you feel for Mademoiselle Daae is well and good, if relegated to the proper place. She is perfectly suitable for a mistress, Raoul. Should you consign her to such a place in your affections, I would smile and toast you and say bravo, brother! But she is entirely _un_suitable as a wife or future Viscomtess, and this is what you must learn. Find a proper wife, little brother, and then turn your attentions to winning back the affections of Miss Daae. Or vice versa. But let me hear no more talk of engagements."

Raoul nodded, his blood still boiling, but his head level. Philippe was not one to grow angry or violent, but he could tell merely by looking at his brother that to push this issue further tonight was not in his best interests.

"Excellent." Philippe turned away from Raoul and poured himself a glass of wine. "A drink, little brother?"

"No, thank you, Philippe. I must be on my way."

Raoul left the room abruptly, mounted his horse, and rode into the busy nighttime streets of Paris. He needed something stronger than wine tonight.

Raoul de Chagny was a good man, but he was certainly no paragon of virtue. He had no qualms whatsoever about enjoying a good round of drinks in a tavern, taking his chances at the gaming table, and then using the money to buy the services of a woman in one of Paris's more reputable brothels.

He loved Christine dearly, and he had every intention of winning her back. But that certainly didn't stop him from riding to the nearest tavern and ordering a brandy.

Nor did it stop him from consuming several more, and then proceeding to win a hundred francs in a game of cards.

Nor did it stop him from leaving the tavern and crossing the street to his brothel of choice, where he followed a lovely, if heavily made-up, brunette to her room and drowned the remainder of his sorrows in the pleasures she offered.

And while he took what he had paid generously for, he imagined in his liquor-sodden mind that the woman beneath him was Christine.


	15. Wandering Child

**Author's Note: There is some artistic license taken in this chapter. I've tried to keep it as accurate and in-character as possible. Please keep in mind that I have not read Susan Kay's novel, which I've heard gives the account of Erik's childhood. All that I have to draw from is Andrew Lloyd Webber's movie and Gaston Leroux's novel, neither of which gives an account of Erik's life before Madame Giry rescues him from the fairgrounds. **

**Please, please review this chapter and tell me what you think. I apologize for taking so long to get this chapter up, I wanted it to be good, and I also had a concert band competition last night, so the past week has been crazy with preparations.**

**Also, brownies to _Laura Kay_ for catching the Leroux tribute in the last chapter! It was the comment that Erik made about not being able to live up to his promise to make Meg an empress, an allusion to Erik's promise to Mme. Giry to do so if she would help him in Leroux's novel. Honorary brownies to those who said Philippe, that wasn't my intent, but brownies nonetheless to catching something that the authoress herself didn't!**

**Enjoy, and please review!**

**-**

**Chapter 17: Wandering Child**

"That was a very kind thing for you to do, Erik." Christine said as she lay in his arms that night.

"Kindness had nothing to do with it, Christine. Madame Giry is as much a mother to me as any woman could be. Certainly more a mother than the woman who gave birth to me."

"What was your mother…your real mother, like?" Christine asked hesitantly.

Erik tensed, his eyes closing. Why must she always be so curious? The last thing he wanted was to open up old wounds that were even now barely healed, even after so many years.

_She is going to be your wife. She has a right to know who you are._

"She was very beautiful. She had black hair and deep blue eyes, and skin as pale as porcelain. I remember looking at her face as a young child and wondering how a face so perfect could have borne one so marred."

"Beauty is only skin deep." Christine parroted, remembering that Madame Giry had often told the ballet rats that very thing when she caught them too often preening before the long mirrors in their rooms.

"Indeed." Erik closed his eyes and pulled Christine tighter to him, recalling memories that he had long since buried deep within him, hoping to never remember. But some things were too painful to forget…

"The first three years of my life were the kindest ever granted to me. I do not recall those years—they are the only part of my life that I do not remember with the utmost clarity. The earliest memory I have is that of my fourth birthday…"

_His mother, the Countess de Hunde, was seated in her dressing-room, speaking to one of the maids._

_"What do you mean, Natalie, this is a special day? Whatever is special about it?"_

_"It's your son's birthday, Madame."_

_"Is it?"_

_"Yes. Cook wants to know what sort of dinner plans you had in mind for tonight."_

_The Countess shrugged lightly, peering into the mirror. "I suppose she may make a small cake. His nanny may celebrate with him. But see that he doesn't leave the nursery. I suppose this is the one day out of all days that the Count would be most displeased to see him."_

_Erik—except his name had not been Erik then, he had had no name, except for what his nanny called him—had run away from the door behind which he had hidden, back up to the stairs to his nursery, torn between the sadness that threatened to overwhelm him, and fear of being caught outside the nursery._

_In the end, sadness won out. He had hid behind a stack of blocks—the only toys he would ever play with—and cried until his nanny found him._

_She had tried to comfort him as best as she could, though he wondered why she would never look directly at him. _

_There were many things that he wondered. Why did people always make that strange motion over themselves when he entered a room? Why would no one look him in the eye? Why did his mother refuse to see him? _

_The birthday celebration was small and brief. A little cake, big enough for two people, was brought up to the nursery, and the nanny sang the birthday song for him._

_There was even a small package on the table. "Look, Damon!" the nanny crowed. "Your mother has sent you a gift for your birthday!"_

_He grabbed for it eagerly, tearing away the plain paper. An oddly formed piece of white leather fell from the package, and he picked it up, wondering at what it might be._

_The nanny smiled nervously. The Countess had told her that morning what the package would contain, and the instructions that went with it._

_"Look, Damon, it is a mask. Now you can be like that famous Spanish swordsman that I read to you about…do you remember him?"_

_"His name was Zorro."_

_"That's right." The nanny helped him to smooth the mask onto his face. Once it was on, she breathed a sigh of relief. With the white material covering the right side of his face, the little boy looked like any other child. _Perhaps now his mother will be able to stand the sight of him,_ she thought bitterly._

_"Now listen to me, Damon. This is very important. You will be allowed to see your mother now that you are old enough to wear this mask. But you are never to enter her presence or leave this nursery unless this mask is on your face. If you do, you will receive the same punishment as before, when you weren't allowed to leave the nursery at all. Do you understand?"_

_Erik nodded, and from the fear that flickered in his eyes, the nanny knew that he would obey. "But why do I have to wear this?"_

_The nanny carefully peeled away the mask and lifted a hand mirror before Erik's eyes so that he could see his reflection. He had never looked in a mirror before._

_There was a monster in the mirror. A terrible face that was twisted and scarred._

_Erik screamed…_

Christine shuddered. She could not imagine such a thing. Her father had been her closest friend and companion until his death. She wanted to say something, anything to take away the pain that she knew must be in Erik's eyes now, but there were no words to salve such a terrible grief.

"That was your name—Damon?" she finally asked, resting her head against Erik's shoulder.

"That was what my nanny called me." He laughed bitterly. "It was no name. I didn't learn until many years later, when I began to study languages, what that name meant."

Christine was silent, wondering, but afraid to ask.

Erik answered the unspoken question after a moment's silence. "It meant _devil_."

"But surely your father cared for you, even if your mother did not." Christine protested, thinking of how precious her own father had been to her. The idea of Erik's father loathing him as much as his mother had was unfathomable to Christine's naive mind.

"I never met my father, nor he I."

"But the Count…"

"…was not my father." Erik said, his lips twisting in a humorless smile. "When I was eight years old, I overheard another conversation, this time between my mother and one of her close friends…"

_"You are such a courageous woman, to have borne this curse for so many years in silence. Has the Count ever suspected…?"_

_"I do not know. He refuses to see the boy. As for my silence…I can do nothing else. This is my penance, as I see it, for the sin which Viktor and I committed those nine years ago. God has punished me for the sin of adultery in causing me to bear a demon instead of a child."_

_"Is the deformity really so bad?"_

_"It is…" the Countess paused, her apt eyes catching sight of Erik behind the door. "Come here, little Damon!"_

_Erik stiffened and entered the room slowly, afraid that he was to be punished for disobedience. But his mother only took his hand and drew him closer, a rare show of affection. _

_"Take off the mask, Damon."_

_"Damon? Is that his name?"_

_"That is what his nanny calls him." the Countess replied, suddenly ashamed of the fact that she had never given the boy a name. "Take off your mask, I said!"_

_Erik quivered in fear, remembering the instructions that his nanny had given him. But his mother's lips were beginning to thin in anger, and he hurriedly pulled the leather from his face._

_The woman across from her paled, her eyes closing hurriedly and her hand quickly moving to cross herself. "Damon…" she whispered. "…devil. This is the Devil's child, not yours and certainly not the Count's! No human child could have a face so perfect on one side and so horribly malformed on the other! You should have killed him before he drew his first breath!"_

_"That is what the priest who attended the birth said." _

_The Countess lowered her eyes and handed Erik back his mask, waving for him to leave. He ran from the room, tears already gathering in his eyes. _

_"But I couldn't. The perfect side of his face…it was Viktor's. Every detail of that man's face was outlined in my son's. I couldn't let the doctor kill him. So I said that he would live. And it has been my bane every since. Viktor died two months later…an accident from his horse, if it was really an accident. I don't know how the Count has never noticed that his 'son' looks nothing like either he or I, but then again, he has hardly looked at him since the day of his birth."_

_"You poor woman. You poor, poor woman..."_

"That was how my life was for a little over eight years. No pity for me, only for my mother, the poor woman who was burdened with the Devil's child. And in the end, I was the cause of her death."

"No, Erik, no." Christine whispered, turning and wrapping her arms around his neck. "You couldn't have been responsible."

Erik's mouth tightened. "No? Then explain to me why she was a beautiful, healthy woman in the prime of life before my birth, and for eight years afterwards she wasted away until she was no more than a shadow! She was burdened by me constantly. I was her curse, her penance, her nightmare. When I was born, her life broke apart. The Count saw her as little as possible, and she couldn't bear the sight of me! With or without the mask, I was a constant reminder of the sin she had committed, the curse she had brought upon herself and the face of her dead lover! My very presence gnawed at her mind until she became a wraith, alone and unloved. She died alone, Christine! She died alone in _the very room where she gave birth to me!_"

Tears were streaming down his face now, his voice cracking and breaking.

"The Count knew I wasn't his son, whatever he had led my mother to believe. He threw me out onto the streets, took away even my mask. He wouldn't even give me that shred of dignity. I starved on the streets for a week before a group of gypsies came across me. They called me the Devil's Child, too, and like that woman who so aptly translated that horrid name, they believed it! And after a while, I believed it too! Gone were even the small pleasures I had enjoyed while in the house of the Count. Gone were the books that I had devoured and the music that had soothed my tortured child's soul. I became a creature, a monster, a _thing._ And then, one day, when I was nine years old, I met an angel for the first time."

"Madame Giry." Christine whispered.

"Her name was Couturier then. Mademoiselle Couturier. She rescued me from the fairgrounds and took me to the cellars of the building that would become the Opera Populaire. She gave me life, even if it was a life of twenty-nine years spent in darkness. That is why I call her my mother, Christine, and not the Countess de Hunde. The Countess gave me physical life, but that life was empty and shallow for over nine years. Madame Giry gave my soul life."

Christine caressed his face with her fingers and her lips, brushing away the tears. "And what did I do, my love?" she asked, nestling against him.

Erik kissed her forehead and closed his eyes. "Madame Giry gave my soul life." he repeated as he sighed softly and drew her closer into the circle of his arms. "But you alone could make it take flight." He breathed in the scent of her as her breathing grew regular and she drifted into quiet sleep. "You alone, Christine."


	16. Reminders of the Past

**Author's Note: A bit more artistic license, this time with Madame Giry. Hope no one minds. And the beginnings of the plot twist here...tell me what you think I'm going to do!**

**And a Susan Kay tribute this time! Hint: It's a line towards the end. Double brownies to whoever finds it!**

**Review, as always, and enjoy.**

**-**

**Chapter 18: Reminders of the Past**

Madame Giry stared down at the bank draft in her hand, eyes wide at the amount written there.

She had known that Erik was rich, and to a rich man, the figure on the draft was only moderate. But to her, having subsisted on the meager pay of a ballet mistress for many years, it was a small fortune.

She unlocked her desk drawer and laid it with the key to her box at the bank and a deed to a piece of land. Both were part of Meg's inheritance, a small amount of gold and land left to her by her father. With this added to it, Meg's dowry would increase greatly.

Madame Giry breathed a prayer of thanks. She had spent many sleepless nights wondering what she would do when it came time for Meg to marry, especially now that the girl's sixteenth birthday was drawing so near. She wanted better for her daughter than the life she herself had spent. Monsieur Jules had been a kind and loving man, and she had loved him dearly. But she, like all mothers, wanted more for her only daughter than a poor marriage to a country blacksmith.

She wanted only the best for her only child.

_Her only child…_

But Meg wasn't her only child. Christine had been like a daughter to her…

_You have been like a mother to me, Antoinette…_

…and Erik had been like a son.

_I would have liked a son…_

She had not heard that voice in years. It was a voice not forgotten, but consigned to her heart's drawer of memories to be taken out only occasionally, lest they cause too much pain. The voice of her dead husband…

_Monsieur Jules Giry had been among the best of men. A simple blacksmith, he had visited the opera with a rich friend one evening, and found that he could not take his eyes from a beautiful dancer in the corps de ballet. With no title or position to impede his interest, he had waited outside her dressing room door with a bouquet of roses hurriedly purchased outside the doors of the opera house. _

_Antoinette Couturier's heart had been instantly lost to the handsome man, though he was several years older than she. With her father's consent, she left the ballet and was married to him soon after. But dark days had entered their marriage almost immediately. She had conceived twice in the first three years, only to lose the child both times. Finally, six years into their wedded life, she gave birth to a little blonde girl._

_Those six years with Jules Giry, with the exception of the deaths of her unborn children, had been the best that she could remember. The boy that she had rescued from the gypsy fair had been almost forgotten. He no longer filled her thoughts as he had at the opera house—in fact, he had hardly entered them at all. She did not wonder what had become of him or whether he still remained in those dank cellars or no. In later years, the knowledge that she had forgotten him so easily would haunt her. Forgotten him—except for one moment that she knew that she would remember even if she forgot everything else that had ever happened in her forty-one years of living._

_She had returned home after a visit to the local physician. It had been a year after Meg's birth, and she still had not conceived. To her dismay, the doctor informed her that Meg's difficult delivery, which had not seemed a reason for concern, had rendered her barren. There would be no more children for Jules and Antoinette Giry. _

_She had been terrified to tell her husband the news. But he had asked immediately upon her entrance. _

_"What did the doctor have to say, Antoinette?" he had asked._

_Antoinette had faltered, but the kind concern in her husband's eyes gave her courage. "He said…he said that I am barren. That we cannot have any more children. Jules…"_

_The pain in her husband's eyes had nearly shattered her. He tried to hide it, but she would have seen it anyway. She would have known._

_"Jules, please don't be angry with me!" she had begged, falling on her knees in front of where he was seated, tears streaming down her face. "We have Meg…it doesn't matter so much, does it? Perhaps he was wrong… please, don't be angry with me!"_

_"I'm not angry, dear Antoinette." He had picked her up, taking her comfortingly into his arms. "I could never be angry with you. It's just…"_

_She had waited for him to finish, afraid of what he would say and dreadfully curious all at once._

_"It's just that I would have liked a son…"_

_For reasons she could not have explained then, she had thought of Erik. The boy had not crossed her mind in all the time since her marriage, but at that moment, her mind had filled with the image of the lost little boy, only three years younger than she. _

_"I would have liked a son…"_

_She had thought of him then, wondered if he still lived, if he had stayed in those cellars or escaped to a more peaceful existence. Guilt had filled her for abandoning him so easily, for rescuing him and then never making provisions for his existence in a world that surely had never been kind to him before._

_She had fallen into illness then, consumed by guilt, wracked by fear and haunted by her husband's innocent words._

_"I would have liked a son…"_

_She had been plagued by nightmares in which he left her. She had awoken from them to find him by her bedside, comforting her, and been completely at a loss as to how he could still love her so much when she had failed him so greatly._

_At last, the illness had abated and her sanity had returned. They had spent another year in a semblance of bliss. Erik faded from her thoughts again, and they watched their daughter turn from two to three years of age._

_And then, it was Jules who had fallen to illness, and unlike his wife, he did not recover._

_A widow at twenty-seven, Madame Giry had fought back despair, put her small funds together, set aside what she knew that her husband would have wished to bequeath to Meg, and set about rebuilding her life._

_And that was when she had heard of the new opera house that had been built. She had taken Meg, traveled to Paris, and applied for a position as ballet mistress._

_It had been six months before she knew that Erik was alive and that it was he who had designed the new Opera Populaire._

Madame Giry wiped away the tears that had fallen. How was it that some things, no matter how long ago they occurred, could still haunt a person and cause them pain? She had long since ceased to remember the little that had been bad about Jules Giry and recalled only the good—but that one moment stood out among all others, even surpassing the deaths of her first two children.

_You have been like a mother to me, Antoinette…_

She had forgotten all about the little boy when she had been married, taken him from one wretched life and abandoned him to one only marginally better. She had done nothing to deserve his love or his forgiveness, and yet she had received both. He had taken her name as his own…

He had called her his mother.

_"I would have liked a son…"_

"Oh, Jules." She touched the locket that hung around her neck, beneath the high neckline of her gown. "You have a son. He is a genius, though some have thought him mad. His face is marred, but his soul is so full of wonder and of beauty that it matters little. He has hidden in darkness and agony for nearly forty years, and I feared for so long that the greatness within him would never see the light of day. I longed so to take him from his darkness. I could not. But at long last he has found his light, and if the world will only accept him, I tremble to think what will happen. The world has been deprived so long of the greatness within him, the ability that he has been gifted with. You would be so proud of him if you knew him, Jules. You would love him so."

Madame Giry felt the tears begin again. "You would love him as I do…"

-

"What is your name?"

The young brunette paused for a moment, her fingers stumbling over a button as she dressed. She regained her composure quickly and tossed her hair back as she finished buttoning the bodice of the low-cut green gown that she wore. "Why does it matter, monsieur?"

"Because I want to know." Raoul replied sharply, and then was instantly sorry for his tone. He had been constantly on edge the past week, and he knew it was a result of the large amounts of hard liquor he had been consuming. Guilt assailed him at the expression that he saw flicker across her face. He had been visiting her every night for the past week, paying generously each time, sometimes leaving a few francs on the table next to the bed for her to find. He knew how greedy the madams of these higher quality brothels could be, and that she would be lucky if she kept half of her earnings each night. He watched her in the mirror, his conscience attacking him strongly. The least he could have done was asked her name before this. From the expression on her face, it seemed that she would have appreciated that small gesture more than the tips he left—yet another reminder of her profession.

"It doesn't matter." she asserted. "You come, you pay Madame Lavage, you visit my room, and then you leave. Knowing my name doesn't affect the process at all, monsieur."

Raoul winced at the bitterness lacing her voice. "I want to know your name, mademoiselle." He made an effort to soften his words. "I have come here several nights and asked for you each time. I have a right to know the name of the woman whose services I am employing."

He saw her face harden, and he knew he had said the wrong thing. "What you have rights to you have already taken, monsieur." She reached for a pot of rouge and began applying it to her lips. "Our relationship is strictly business. I tell no one who comes through these doors my name." She turned to face Raoul. "I have precious little left that is mine alone. Allow me to keep that much, monsieur."

"What do people call you, then?"

Her lips twisted in a bitter smile. "Many things, monsieur, none of which should pass a lady's lips. But then, I'm not much of a lady, am I?"

"You could be." It was true, Raoul thought as he glanced over her appreciatively. Unlike so many women like her, she retained the youthfulness of her features, a hint that she had not been a prostitute for very long. She did not look more than nineteen, even with the heavy cosmetics that made her look older. Raoul guessed that she was closer to seventeen—perhaps even sixteen.

Christine's age.

"With what?" She spread her hands, gesturing around the sparse room. "This is all I know, monsieur. There is nothing else for me."

Raoul looked at her for a moment, surprised at the sudden innocence that showed through in her momentary despair. He took in her long, curly brown hair, wide brown eyes and pale skin. She could easily have passed for…_someone else_.

"Call me Raoul, mademoiselle…" he said suddenly.

"I..."

"…and I will call you Christine."


	17. Deception

**Author's Note: Apologies for taking so long to update, writer's block and life kicked in simultaneously. :)**

**Okay, some of you are either going to applaud me, or hate me for this chapter. I'm scared. Really scared.**

**And the Susan Kay reference from the last chappie was Madame Giry's line: "I feared for so long that the greatness in him would never see the light of day." an reference to the line in Susan Kay's novel (which I would love to actually read but can't find!) "There was so much beauty in your soul Erik. So much beauty that I fear now, because of...folly, will never see the light of day."**

**Not really a close fit, but that's what I was thinking of when I wrote that line, and wondered if anyone else would catch it.**

**So enjoy, readers, and please review! I need feedback for this chapter!**

**-**

**Chapter 19: Deception**

The young prostitute's reaction to Raoul's words was entirely different from what he had expected.

She set the cosmetics that she had been applying to her face back onto the table, and turned to face Raoul, her face expressionless.

"So that is it. I must admit, I had wondered why you had visited only me for so many nights, when there are so many lovely girls at this establishment. It seems I have my answer. So I remind you of someone, this girl, Christine. Who was she? Your lover? Or perhaps she was your mistress. I've heard that the practice of taking mistresses is considered so much more acceptable among the nobility. But perhaps your tastes aren't so refined?"

"I'm sorry…I didn't mean…" Raoul stopped short. Why was he making such a production out of this? The girl was just a whore, nothing else, and he was making a fool out of himself. He had been to brothels many times before, taken women like this girl and never given them a second thought. What on earth had gotten into him?

_She reminds you of Christine. That's why you are going to such lengths to protect her feelings. She's not Christine, Raoul. Or are you actually starting to believe your brother?_

Raoul paused for a moment, his mind suddenly clearing. Philippe's biting comment came back to him sharply.

_"It doesn't matter that she's to be a diva now, you might as well be chasing a prostitute!"_

"Take the makeup off." Raoul instructed.

She blinked at him.

"Just do as I say!"

For a reason that she didn't understand, the girl turned to do as he asked. When she turned back from the washstand, Raoul took in a sharp breath.

With the heavy cosmetics gone from her face, the young woman looked even more like Christine. Raoul smiled, a plan forming in his mind.

"What would you say if I told you that I could take you away from all this?"

She laughed. "Is that a proposal of marriage, monsieur?"

"I told you to call me Raoul. And no. Hardly. What I am proposing is something much different, but equally as satisfying."

She tried to act uninterested, but a flicker of hope showed through in her eyes. "What are you talking about, mons…Raoul?"

"You were right. You do remind me of someone—my fiancée, to be precise. Her name is Christine, and you look enough like her to be her twin. She abandoned me for another man…"

-

Giselle Auteur had spent all her life in hardship. She could not remember a time when she had not been surrounded by poverty and despair. In all her seventeen years, her existence had been as bleak as she thought a life could be. But no amount of squalid living or penniless hunger could be worse than the horror of prostitution.

Now she sat here, listening to the sad tale of a man who said that he could rescue her from this hell, and she feared to believe him. She felt her heart begin to soften as he related how he had become engaged to this girl called Christine, only to have her leave him for a man that she had once believed to be an angel.

Giselle stifled a laugh. What innocence! The girl must be a complete fool to have believed such a wild tale.

She had once been that innocent, Giselle remembered. Once—it seemed a lifetime ago.

"I want you to pretend to be Christine."

Giselle's eyes snapped up to meet Raoul's. "What?"

"I will pay Madame Lavage enough to convince her to let you leave with me. I will find you proper attire, and you will be, from the moment you step out of those doors, Christine Daae, a chorus girl turned diva."

"I cannot sing…"

"It doesn't matter. You will be staying at my house, and singing is not necessary there. We will not be engaged, my brother has already opposed my engagement to Christine rather strongly. You will be my mistress. Philippe is more than amenable to Christine's being my lover, so long as she does not become a Viscomtess." Raoul laughed. "The façade of propriety means a great deal to my brother."

Giselle considered for a moment. She felt that there was something else to this, something that was escaping her. Surely he would not be content to play this game forever. It was on the tip of her tongue to refuse, but then she looked ahead to the bleak days that awaited her.

She didn't want to spend the rest of her life like this. She wanted something better. The games wouldn't last forever, but it would be better than nothing. She could have the closest thing to happiness that would ever be granted her for a time. Didn't she deserve that much, at least?

It was a small deception. It would hurt no one.

"I will go with you, Raoul." Her mind was made up. "I will be Christine."

-

Madame Giry debated for several moments whether or not to tell Meg of their good fortune. Her decision was made for her when the petite blonde girl came rushing headlong into the room.

Meg stopped short when she saw the tear-tracks on her mother's face.

"Maman, whatever can be the matter?" she asked, her hands resting on her mother's arm. "Has something terrible happened?"

Madame Giry shook her head. "The exact opposite, my dear. I received a gift for you tonight."

Meg's eyes widened. "A gift? What sort of gift, Maman?"

Madame Giry reached into the drawer and handed Meg the cheque.

The girl's eyes widened comically at the amount. "Whoever has this kind of money, Maman? And why me? Whatever can I use this much money for?"

Madame Giry smiled and extracted the paper from her daughter's trembling hand. "A dear friend of mine gave this to you, because he wished to. I can give no other explanation for it than that. And as for what the money will be used for, I can tell you that it will be added to your dowry."

Meg's eyes widened further. "But with that much…why…I could marry a titled man!"

The astonishment in her voice told Madame Giry that her daughter had already resigned herself to a poor marriage, and she wondered how she would ever be able to thank Erik enough. She turned away to lock the drawer. "I do not know how great of a title he may have, or how wealthy he might be, but by the grace of God, we no longer need settle for less than you are worthy of, Meg. We will be able to find you a husband in a leisurely manner."

She turned back to see Meg staring down at the floor and blushing.

"Maman…" Meg ventured, her cheeks stained red.

"Yes, dear?"

"You don't think that perhaps…perhaps…"

"Perhaps what, Meg?"

Meg stammered nervously. "Perhaps…well…that I might attract the attention of someone like…"

Madame Giry sighed, but not impatiently. "Like whom?"

"The…the Viscomte de…de Chagny?"

-

"You must be joking, monsieur!" The portly, aged woman with stained teeth and an entirely artificial face that was Madame Lavage threw her hands into the air and shook her head at Raoul. "Giselle makes more money for me in a night than most of my other girls do in a month! I will not let her go!"

Raoul coolly laid a gold piece on the table. He smiled inwardly at the glint that suddenly appeared in the woman's eyes. "There is more where that comes from, Madame. Now, I ask you again. What price would you command for Giselle Auteur?"

The woman hemmed and hawed, a decided cackle behind her next words. "She's very valuable, monsieur. I couldn't let her go for nothing, you see, and you seem a wealthy man…"

Raoul gritted his teeth, unexplainably angry at the woman's haggling, as though the brunette upstairs were no more than a prize lamb to be sold for the butchering.

He remembered the glimpse of innocence in her eyes when she had refused to tell him her name.

_Giselle._

He had seen the _corps de ballet_ practice steps from that ballet. He had watched one particular brunette, her long, curly hair bound up out of her way, her brown eyes sparkling with delight in her work, dance the tragic role of the girl who had died from her madness.

_Christine_.

The young girl for whom he was bargaining tonight was no more than a reminder of Christine, and a pawn in his plan to win her back.

Madame Lavage finally named her price, and he winced. Philippe would have his head if he learned of this.

He began to try and lower the price, but the woman was firm. It was on the tip of his tongue to curse her and leave. The liquor was going to his head, and it had begun to ache terribly.

His thoughts wandered to Giselle. If he left her here, he wondered, would she go mad? That glimpse of the young woman behind the practiced seductress forced its way into his thoughts, her wide brown eyes taunting him. How long could such innocence, such delicacy survive in a place like this?

_She is just a pawn. Only a pawn._

Raoul had every intention of returning her to this place, or perhaps one marginally better, when his plans were fulfilled and Christine returned to him. Heaven only knew that the real Christine Daae had caused him trouble enough. He hardly needed two of her. This girl would help him to win the woman that he loved back.

He loved Christine, and Christine alone.

But as he counted out the gold, Giselle's wide brown eyes danced mockingly before him, and his only thought was that the lamb would be saved, at least for a time, from the slaughter of what remained of her innocence.


	18. Our Games of Make Believe

**Author's Note:**

**Well, I'm going on vacation this weekend, so this is the last chapter until Sunday night, at least. I'll try to get some writing done during the drive, though. **

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, no one seems to hate it, which is a good thing!**

**Enjoy and review, as always. **

**-**

**Chapter 20: Our Games of Make-Believe**

Madame Lavage couldn't help the expression of glee that wreathed her face as she hurriedly bound the gold into a small leather purse that hung from her neck. She called out harshly: "Marie! Marie, come here immediately!" to the door behind her, and offered a patronizing smile to the Viscomte. "You shall have your girl in a moment, monsieur le Viscomte."

A harried young blonde, as heavily made-up as her employer and exceedingly thin and frail, scuttled up to the madam. "Yes, Madame?" she responded, inclining her head respectfully.

Raoul felt his stomach lurch at the pretentious respect given to the sow of a woman in front of him. He prayed silently and fervently for his business to conclude so that he might get away from this place, which had become somehow increasingly revolting in the past hour.

Or perhaps it was just the effects of the liquor. The oncoming headache was growing steadily worse behind his eyes, and he knew that there was still much to be done before he could bring Giselle home with him.

Madame Lavage beckoned for the blonde to come closer, and whispered something in her ear before straightening and instructing loudly enough for Raoul to hear:

"Tell Giselle that she is to change out of that dress and into one of the pieces that she brought with her, and come downstairs. Tell her to bring any belongings that she might have along, as well."

Marie nodded and turned to hurry up the stairs.

Madame Lavage gave Raoul another smile, which he returned marginally. "So, Monsieur Viscomte, how is it that you have taken such a liking to my Giselle?"

-

Giselle looked up sharply at the rap that came on her door, torn between hope that it was Raoul returning for her, and fear that Madame Lavage was coming to punish her for lingering.

The feelings were confused when the door opened and Marie stood there.

"Come in, Marie." Giselle began hesitantly, wringing her hands together nervously.

The blonde stood stiffly in the doorway, resentment in her darkly outlined blue eyes. "Madame says you are to collect your things and be downstairs in five minutes. She also says you are to leave all of your wages behind, except for a pittance of twenty-five francs that you may keep for yourself. You are to leave all clothing, cosmetics and other trifles acquired here behind, you will wear one of the dresses that you came here with. She says she will know if you have taken anything, and you will not go unpunished. Is that clear, Giselle?"

"Of course…" Giselle trailed off, biting her lip. "Marie…"

"Yes, Giselle?"

Marie's words were curt, biting and resentful. Giselle knew that she, and every other young woman within these walls, would hate her with a passion the moment she stepped foot outside on the arm of the Viscomte de Chagny. They would hate her for her good fortune, even as they had already begun to resent her for her beauty and the favoritism that Madame Lavage had shown her.

She dreaded already the day when she would be forced to return to this life, and she made a promise to herself not to come back to this brothel. Wherever she might have to go to avoid such a thing, she would not return to Madame Lavage's house. Not for any price.

Marie was still standing in the doorway, her face and voice impatient. "What is it, Giselle?"

A feeling of delicious liberation began to spread through Giselle. She shook her head, slowly at first, than firmly. Decisively. "Nothing, Marie. Nothing at all."

Marie shook her head and closed the door behind her with a _bang_, her distaste for the girl who was escaping this life lingering behind her like a rank stench.

Giselle hardly noticed.

She stood up, elation rising within her as she stripped off the hated emerald gown and exchanged it for a modest, worn dress of blue linen, one of two that she had brought with her. She retrieved a small bag from beneath the bed and stuffed the five five-franc notes into it. A small book of poetry that had once belonged to her father was wrapped in her night shift and gently slipped into the bag as well.

Anything that could possibly have been considered valuable had long since been pawned for meager coins, except for the one treasure that Giselle had refused to part with. It was a small ring, a thin gold band with a miniscule diamond gracing it. The ring would not have brought much, but it might have saved her from prostitution for perhaps two or three weeks. But she had held it, turned it in her palm, and chosen to sell herself rather than the ring.

It had been the inevitable end, anyway. She had simply surrendered to it sooner rather than later. But the ring was too precious to her to part with. It had been her mother's wedding ring. Giselle could remember her mother showing her the ring, telling her stories of her wedding day. Had it not been for the small reminder of the ring, Giselle thought that she might have ceased to believe in love altogether.

There certainly was nothing here that testified to its existence.

She turned her thoughts to the Viscomte downstairs, and approached the mirror on the wall. She brushed the tangles from her long curls, and braided her hair back hurriedly, quickly washing any vestiges of the thick makeup from her face. Her brown eyes shone out from her face, paler than usual from the lack of rouge. A healthy blush stained her cheeks from the hasty scrubbing that she had given her face, however, and as Giselle looked at herself one final time in the mirror, she prayed to the God that had long since forsaken her that her time in hell had at long last ended.

To trust in hope at this moment, however, seemed foolishly premature.

-

Raoul saw her coming down the stairs, a small bag clutched in her hand, and he stepped forwards to meet her.

"Mademoiselle, I trust you are ready to leave?"

Giselle nodded, nervousness showing plainly in her eyes. Madame Lavage did not speak a word to her, only handed Marie the pouch of gold and fairly cackled at Marie's astonishment.

Giselle paused to bid Marie farewell, but the look in the girl's eyes stopped her.

These people cared nothing for her. She was nothing but a means of making money to them.

_You are a means to an end for the Viscomte, as well. You would do well to remember that, Giselle Auteur._

She couldn't stop the hope that welled within her, however.

-

Raoul mounted his horse, and gave her a hand behind him. He turned the animal quickly, startling Giselle, but she kept her wits about her.

"Where are we going?" she asked, as he turned down a far more reputable street in the business district of the city.

"A dressmakers." He slowed the horse as they approached a shop with a gas lamp burning in the window. "One of the few that works late. I will leave you here after I have spoken with the woman in charge, then will return in an hours time with my carriage. Be ready for me when I arrive."

Giselle nodded. "Monsieur…"

"Raoul." He corrected her gently but firmly.

"Raoul…about my name…"

"Madame Lavage told me your name. But it doesn't matter any longer."

He stopped the horse and dismounted, giving Giselle a hand down.

She faced him in the faint light. "It doesn't?"

Raoul lifted her chin so that her eyes met his. "You are Christine Daae from this moment on. I expect you to remember that."

Giselle nodded.

"Say it."

Giselle opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

"Say it!"

"I am…my name is…"

Raoul gripped her shoulders with both hands, an odd light coming into his blue eyes. "Say it! My name is Christine Daae. Say it now, Giselle!"

A chill went through her at his use of her name. She dropped her eyes and he forced her chin up so that she met his gaze again. His voice dropped lower. "Say it."

"My name is Christine Daae."

"Good." Raoul turned away from her and opened the door, allowing her to enter before him.

A short woman with graying hair and spectacles came out from the back of the shop to greet them.

"Good evening, monsieur and madame. What can I do for you?"

"_Mademoiselle_ Daae needs some dresses made, as well as other necessities. I trust that you can attend to her?"

"Of course, monsieur. And I am terribly sorry for the slip…"

Raoul shook his head. "It is no matter. I will be back in an hour." To Giselle's surprise, he lifted her hand and kissed it peremptorily. "In an hour, my dear."

Giselle looked into his blue eyes as he drew away and saw a gentle, loving expression there as the endearment slipped from him as naturally as breathing.

_If only he spoke such things to Giselle, and not to Christine._

The thought shocked her, and she dismissed it as preposterous. She would never receive such a loving touch or look from a man. This game, this masquerade was all that she would ever have.

He turned and left the shop then, the warmth of his lips lingering on the back of Giselle's hand, an invisible brand.

She had been freed of one master only to gain another.

"Mademoiselle Daae?"

Giselle turned at the sound of her new name and smiled at the dressmaker.

_So the games begin…_

_-_

In the hour that followed, Giselle found herself swept up in a flurry of measurements and choices. Some of the items she would be able to pick up tonight. Her measurements were fairly average, despite the fact that she was very thin, and the dressmaker thought that she could quickly take in a dress that was already made and have it ready for her to wear home. Alterations took up the rest of the hour, as the older woman fitted her with a corset over her old chemise and altered the gown to fit her slender frame.

If the dressmaker wondered why the girl needed such a complete ensemble of gowns, undergarments, nightdresses and shoes, she said nothing.

_Perhaps she thinks it's for a wedding trousseau,_ Giselle thought ironically as the woman took in the gown. Giselle held her hands above her head, longing to touch the soft fabric of the dress. She had never worn anything so fine.

This game of playing at lovers with the Viscomte wouldn't take much getting used to at all, she thought.

-

Raoul was entirely unprepared for the sight that awaited him when he arrived at the dressmaker's shop with his carriage.

Giselle stepped outside to meet him, wearing a gown of burgundy velvet, with a square neckline cut low, but not such as to cross the lines of decency. It was far more modest than anything he had seen her wearing in the brothel. It nipped in to show off her slender waist, and the hem fell to the ground, hiding her old shoes. Her face glowed in the lamplight, devoid of all makeup, her hair fell in long, loose curls down her back.

She looked so much like Christine that it stole Raoul's breath away.

He offered her his hand and she stepped into the carriage, her near-childish delight at the luxury of it showing through in her eyes.

This would be a problem, Raoul thought. Christine had never lived in the opulence granted to nobility, but she would hardly be shocked by luxury.

"You must not be so taken aback by everything that you see." Raoul said.

Giselle nodded. "I am sorry, Raoul. It's just…it's all so new."

"I know." He took her hand, a display of affection that Giselle found herself once again wishing desperately was truly directed at her.

_Do not allow yourself to care! He is no different than any of the other men who have visited your bed countless times! He has simply found a purpose for you beyond the norm. Enjoy it while it lasts, but do **not** forget who and what you are!_

The sudden barrage of angry thoughts caused Giselle to pale and her mouth to tremble.

Raoul looked away, unwilling to see her as anything but his beautiful, poised Christine. "You will be introduced to my brother when we arrive. He has never met Christine, but you must still be careful of how you conduct yourself. Remember, you are an actress and an opera singer, but Christine was never haughty or pretentious. You are madly in love with me, and we were once engaged, though that has now been broken off due to family interference. You are to be my mistress."

Giselle nodded. "Is there anything else, Raoul?"

Raoul turned her to face him. "You are _innocent._"

-

The sting of Raoul's last words burned Giselle long after they had descended from the carriage and entered the palatial residence of the family de Chagny. She did her best to mask her wonder at the opulence surrounding her. Raoul led her through the hall, past the goggling servants, and straight to a tall mahogany door, upon which he rapped sharply.

A voice answered from within. "Come in."

Raoul opened the door into a small room that appeared to be a study, complete with heavy curtains, thick rugs, a burning fireplace and a long wooden desk. At the desk sat a tall man with dark hair and eyes as blue as Raoul's, who stood upon the entrance of the Viscomte and his companion.

"Welcome back, little brother." He smiled. "I had thought that perhaps we had lost you."

Giselle dropped her eyes. A maidenly blush seemed appropriate, and one promptly stained her cheeks, though its reasons were far from maidenly. She knew where Raoul had been those nights that his brother had no doubt spent in worry, and it was most certainly not in the pursuit of Christine Daae.

_Or was it?_

He had found the face of his beloved on another woman's, and sought solace there. But now he sought to use her for more than solace, and Giselle felt her heart quake within her.

_Whatever had she gotten herself into? She hardly knew this man. There was no telling what sort of plot he might have arranged to win back his fiancée. She was at the mercy of a man who might very well be mad!_

She composed her riotous thoughts as the man she could only assume to be the Comte de Chagny approached her.

"Christine Daae, is it?" he asked, and Giselle knew that Raoul had spun his web of deceit while she had been lost in thought.

She bobbed a respectful curtsy. "At your service, my lord."

"I had assumed that was my brother's domain, but if you insist…" he trailed off into a bout of laughter, which was not shared by Raoul.

Philippe composed himself, but offered no apologies for his ill-placed joke. "Perhaps you would sing for us, Mademoiselle Daae? I have visited the opera, but you were only ever on the chorus. I would be delighted if you would grace us with a solo."

Giselle visibly blanched, and Raoul came to her rescue.

"Christine is very tired, brother." Raoul said, taking her hand. "Perhaps another night?"

"Of course," Philippe acquiesced. "I will have a maid show her to a room immediately."

"Perhaps she could have the suite that adjoins mine?" Raoul asked, his eyes glinting mischievously.

Philippe laughed loudly. "Of course, little brother!" He rang for a servant, and a maid promptly appeared. "Show Miss Daae to the rooms next to Raoul's." he instructed, still chuckling.

The maid nodded and curtseyed. "At once, my lord. This way, mademoiselle." She gestured to Giselle, and with a nervous glance at Raoul that she couldn't suppress, Giselle followed.

-

Philippe poured his brother a glass of wine. "Congratulations, little brother. It seems that luck was on your side after all. Tell me all about it."

Raoul took the glass and sipped it. The drink seemed terribly light and insipid after the hard liquor that he had consumed so freely the last few days, but his mouth had gone dry, and he welcomed the soothing effect of the wine.

"I found her with Madame Giry." He took another sip to steady his nerves. The story must be plausible, his brother was no fool.

"He had tired of her already?" Philippe asked, watching his brother with a mild interest. "After such lengths, you would not think that he would throw her away so quickly."

"She ran away." Raoul replied, finishing the glass and setting it down on the table. "He…accosted her, and she fled."

Philippe snorted. "She is innocent, isn't she? She obviously knows nothing of men, if she thinks that she could choose to stay with him and yet not suffer the consequences."

Raoul gritted his teeth. "She…they were not wed."

Philippe laughed. "What makes you think that she will acquiesce to you, little brother? You have no promise of marriage to assuage her piety with any longer."

Raoul stood abruptly. "She will." He exited without further ado, stopping only to clench his fists and mutter to the empty halls:

"She _must_."


	19. My Living Bride

**Author's Note:**

**Okay, sorry for the delay, my vacation went overtime as we had car trouble and got stranded overnight in Montgomery, Alabama.**

**I did, however, get a good jump on the next chapter, so I'll have it to you in a next couple of days.**

**And before all of you start thinking this story has become _entirely_ about Giselle and Raoul, Erik and Christine _are_ in this chapter. :)**

**Enjoy and review!**

**Thanks!**

**-**

**Chapter 21: My Living Bride**

The packages came for Giselle the next afternoon. She closed the door and laid them out on the bed, tearing away the paper hurriedly, like a child at Christmastime.

There was another corset, and several chemises, clean and new, the high-quality linen soft beneath Giselle's fingers. The nightgown was also soft linen, edged with lace. There was a silk robe with lace trimming, and pairs of stockings made from fine lace and cotton, and several pairs of long gloves.

But the dresses were the best of all.

Giselle lingered over each, her eyes shining as she examined the lovely gowns. There were two gowns of watered silk, one dark blue and the other a light pink, both trimmed with frothy white lace. There was also a dark green velvet, like the burgundy velvet that she had worn the night before.

There was a black skirt and a white shirtwaist, as well as two light day-dresses, one yellow and the other white.

Giselle hurriedly changed into the white dress, relishing the feel of the soft material against her skin. She peered into the mirror, fixing her hair this way and that, before finally giving up and letting it fall long and loose down her back. She slipped her feet into the white slippers that had come with the dress, and stepped outside of her room, feeling like a princess.

Raoul was standing there, and a smile lit his face when she appeared.

Giselle felt her skin warm beneath his gaze, and her only salvation was the brutal thought that flitted through her mind.

_He sees Christine._

It was only confirmed when the Viscomte kissed the back of her hand and greeted her warmly.

"Good afternoon, Christine."

-

Erik was feeling neglected. Christine had been caught up with Madame Giry and Meg in wedding plans for the last week, and now she had left the opera house entirely to go to a small café for lunch.

She had, admittedly, invited him to go along, but he had refused. He was willing to live in a house, abandon his darkness and solitude and join the living, but taking a repast in a sidewalk café was more than he could handle at the moment.

Perhaps one day…

She had left not five minutes ago, and already he was missing her. At least, when she stood in her room or in Madame Giry's office chattering about flowers and lace and wine, he could ignore the feminine discourse and simply watch her from one of his hidden vantage points.

But now he didn't even have that luxury.

He resorted to looking about her room, inhaling the sweet scent of her perfume and looking at some of the items that lay scattered about. She was packing, and most of her belongings had already been boxed up and were stacked in a corner, waiting to be moved to her new home.

Their new home.

Exhilaration filled him. He was to be granted the life of a normal man. How long had he wished for such a thing? How long had he lain awake at night envisioning such things or slept fitfully, dreaming of a home, a wife…children?

Always he had shared that home with one woman—Christine. But never had he dared to truly believe that his dreams might quite literally come true.

Perhaps there was a God after all.

He turned his attentions to her closet, wondering how many dresses of her own she had. He would be certain to make provisions for her, with Madame Giry's assistance. The older woman would know what sort of gowns would be in keeping with the current fashions for Christine's wedding trousseau.

There were only four, a day-dress, an evening gown which seemed quite out of style, even to Erik's limited knowledge, and two skirts and matching shirtwaists. He caught a glimpse of white fabric and pushed the other dresses aside, lifting the pale garment out of the wardrobe.

It was undeniably a wedding gown, and a beautiful one at that. He lay the dress down on the bed, stroking the soft material.

The gown was long-sleeved, with a scooped neck outlined in seed pearls. It was not nearly as elaborate as the gown he had purchased for Christine, but it was lovely nonetheless. There was no embroidery, but seed pearls made beautiful designs of flowers, vines and leaves across the silk skirt, designed to be worn full with a generous amount of petticoats. The bodice had similar designs, but the material was stiffer, and designed to be worn with a tight corset. It was slightly off-shoulder, and the sleeves were tight, coming to just over the wrist with a light frothing of lace. He turned back to the wardrobe and saw a box with a bit of lace peeking out sitting on a shelf.

Feeling a touch ashamed for looking through Christine's belongings, he removed the lid of the box and saw within a circlet of stiff seed pearls wound about with roses long since dried and faded, with a long veil of delicate lace. A small velvet jeweler's box rested beneath it, and he withdrew the box and opened it.

He leapt to a thousand angry conclusions at once when he saw what lay within—a diamond engagement ring and a plain gold band.

He held the box tightly in his hand, cursing to the empty air. Where had Christine gotten such things? Did she have another lover, perhaps? Or did she intend to marry the Viscomte after all? Were these things the trappings for _their_ wedding?

Erik paced the room incessantly, fury building within him as he awaited Christine's return.

-

"I can't imagine that Erik would want a large wedding."

Christine shook her head in response to Madame Giry's comment, taking a bite of her salad. The three women had stopped by a small sidewalk café for lunch after perusing several florists and wine merchants.

"He hasn't said very much regarding it, but I know that he won't want a great deal of people there. I haven't any family to attend, but we will want you there, of course, and Meg, and perhaps Andre and Firmin."

Madame Giry glanced up at Christine. "What about Raoul?" she asked quietly, already anticipating what the answer would be.

A shadow seemed to fall over Christine's face, and she did not even notice how Meg looked up sharply at the mention of the Viscomte's name.

"I would like nothing more than for him to be at my wedding, but Erik would not have it. I haven't even broached the subject with him—it would do nothing but cause trouble. Raoul has been one of my dearest friends since childhood, and I never dreamed that it would ever end, but in order to secure Erik's happiness I must cut all ties with him."

Madame Giry nodded. "Is that what you want, Christine?"

Christine looked up, surprised at the gentle tone of Madame Giry's voice. It was as though the harsh discourse of a week ago had never taken place.

Christine was sorely tempted to ask Madame Giry what she would do if it wasn't, but she quelled her curiosity and only nodded her head. "It is."

Meg sighed, and Christine looked curiously at the blonde, but pushed the issue no further.

-

Christine returned to the opera house in the late afternoon, her spirits considerably lightened by her outing. She entered her room to find Erik sitting at the dresser, a jeweler's box clutched in his hand and an angry scowl on his face.

"Why, Erik, whatever is the matter?" she asked, her brow lining with concern.

She noticed the wedding dress spread out behind him and the box containing the veil atop it. A flash of annoyance that he should go through her things assailed her, but she pushed it aside. It was just like Erik that he should be so curious. But the expression on his face was not one of curiosity, and it frightened her.

His first words were so loud and angry that she leapt backwards, pressing herself against the closed door in fright.

"_What is the meaning of **this?**_" He held out the box in a shaking hand, the two rings within glinting in the lamplight, and gestured to the dress and the veil with the other hand. "Trappings for your marriage to the Viscomte, no doubt? Did you think to play me for the fool, Christine?" He took a step towards her and Christine shrank back, her mind spinning madly.

"Erik…" she tried, but he was not to be argued with.

"When is he coming for you, Christine?" he asked, his voice low and feral as he approached her. "Tell me, Christine, I should like to be there when your precious Viscomte comes to rescue you once again." He closed his fist about the box and stopped in front of Christine, his face mere inches from hers. "I should like to tell him…" Erik ran his fingers through her hair and grasped the back of her neck, pulling her mouth close to his. "I should like to tell him what happened after he left."

"Erik, please stop…" Christine begged, putting her hands out to push him away. "Let me explain."

"Explain?" Erik laughed and let go of her. "Yes, my dear, you shall explain. Explain to me why you have taken the trouble of seducing a monster when you could have had perfection without even blinking an eye."

Christine gaped at him.

Erik shrugged gracefully and took a seat once more. "Go ahead, dear Christine. Explain."

Christine waited only a second. Anger began to bubble up inside of her at the sudden threat to her idyllic world. "If you would only have asked rather than presuming that you have infinite knowledge of everyone's personal lives, I would have told you that the items which have gotten you into such a fine temper have nothing to do with either you or Raoul!"

Erik had been ready with another fiery retort, but he paused and reconsidered. "Really? Pray, do go on." He kept the low, sarcastic tone, but some of the temper had left. Inwardly, he was relieved. The anger on Christine's face was far preferable to him than the stark fear that had been there a moment ago, fear which had quickly cooled his heated fury.

"Really." Christine crossed to the bed and touched the dress. Her voice grew quiet and sad. "This was my mother's wedding dress and veil, Erik. The rings in that box are hers and my fathers."

Erik's expression grew grave and apologetic all at once. "I apologize, Christine." He walked to where she stood and took her hand. "I allowed my temper to get the better of me, as I have so many times before. It is a grave fault of mine." He looked down at Christine. "I am trying."

"I know." Christine ran her hand over the silk of the gown once more. "I had thought to one day wear it to my own wedding. But I suppose it will be saved for my daughter now."

Erik frowned. "Why not wear it to our wedding, Christine? It is a lovely gown, and surely Madame Giry can help you alter it if need be."

Christine looked up at him, surprised. "I thought that you would want me to wear the gown that you had designed for me, Erik."

Erik closed his eyes for a moment.

_What an angel this woman is. _

He drew Christine into his arms, and offered a whispered prayer of gratitude when she did not draw away. "Wear the gown, Christine, if you wish. That gown that I purchased for you will need a great deal of repair before it is in the condition to be worn, and while I will gladly have it seen to, if you want to wear your mother's gown, Christine, do so."

Christine looked up at him, her eyes shining. "Do you mean that, Erik? You won't be hurt?"

Erik shook his head. "What does it matter to me what you wear, Christine? All that will matter to me on our wedding day is that you love me, and that you will be mine, my living bride. Do you want to wear your mother's dress?"

Christine nodded.

"Then wear it, Christine."


	20. The Delusions of a Madman

**Author's Note:**

**WARNING: This chapter definitely meets the PG-13 rating. A little Raoul action here. ;)**

**To forever in a bottle: Yes, the "living bride" comment was a Leroux reference. Good job catching it!**

**Enjoy and review. :)**

**-**

**Chapter 22: The Delusions of a Madman**

The first meal in the de Chagny mansion was exquisite torture for Giselle. She had skipped breakfast, claiming to have overslept, and had shared a light lunch with Raoul in the gardens. But dinner, as Raoul gently but firmly informed her, was a formal affair in the de Chagny home, and her presence was required.

Formality extended to dress, as became apparent to Giselle when she stepped inside her room and saw a jeweled hair-net and a string of emeralds lying on her bed, leaving no doubt as to which dress Raoul wished for her to wear.

A part of her rebelled to the fact that he should direct her every moment, down to which gown she should wear. And then…

_You would not even possess those lovely gowns and jewels if not for him. If not for the madness of the Viscomte de Chagny, you would still wallow in filth, attired in tattered garments, bought with tainted money._

_The madness of the Viscomte de Chagny._

The thought startled her.

_But he was mad, _her mind argued. Only a madman would see innocence in her eyes. Only a madman would take a common street whore and transform her face and body into the face and body of the woman he loved.

She thrust such thoughts from her mind. To entertain them would be to allow them to go further, to allow them to transform from the thought of _what_ the Viscomte was doing to the _why_ of it. A _why_ that she did not understand.

A _why_ that Giselle Auteur had no desire to understand.

-

So it was, that at half past six precisely, Giselle found herself seated across from Raoul at a magnificent dinner table, laced so tightly into the green gown that she feared breathing itself might prove a difficulty, let alone eating. The hair-net held her brunette locks into an elegant mass behind her head, the emerald necklace hung heavy about her neck, a reminder of the chains that she had willingly locked herself into.

She held her head high, her porcelain skin glowing in the candlelight, her brown eyes holding only the lightest of emotions.

She appeared the epitome of loveliness and poise.

Inside, Giselle felt that she might go mad with nerves.

It had only taken one look down at the elegant china on the table before her to cause her fingers to tremble and her face to pale.

There were at least five different types of silverware on either side of the delicate bowl and plate. She hadn't the faintest idea which type she was to use for what manner of food, or even what a few of the items were used for.

What a fool she'd been, to think that she, a common girl fallen far beneath her poor birth, could survive one day in the presence of nobility.

The Comte would discover the charade in an instant. He would throw her out first onto the streets, and then deal with Raoul. No doubt the Viscomte would charm his brother into letting him off with only a good scolding.

Giselle would find herself in perhaps worse straits than before.

In the midst of her frightened, tumbling thoughts, she missed the light brush of a foot against her own.

She was pulled from those riotous imaginings by a sharp kick against her shin.

Stifling a yelp of pain, she looked up to see Raoul's eyes boring into hers. Giselle stiffened, fearing a reprimand, but there was only gentleness there.

He waited only until Philippe had looked away to instruct a servant before gesturing to the silverware and mouthing the words: "Follow me."

Giselle decided that despite his madness, the Viscomte was a wonderfully charming man.

-

Giselle found herself able to endure the Comte's questioning, none of which delved too deeply—an eventuality for which she found herself deeply grateful, as her ability to convincingly lie had never been too great—until the meal began to be served.

The food was beyond anything she had ever tasted. From the salad course to the main entrée, to the numerous side dishes, to the rich wine served with each dish, to the velvety chocolate torte served for dessert, and finally the classic cheese plate served with yet another type of well-aged wine, Giselle thought that surely she had entered a sinfully decadent Heaven.

The consistent stream of speech from Philippe, however, threatened to disturb her enjoyment of it. It proved quite difficult to formulate consistent answers to his questions about her life both before and after meeting Raoul, follow the Viscomte's lead as to which eating utensils to use, and gain full enjoyment from the delightful repast set before her.

But as she dug into yet another of the delightful dishes, she determined that it was well worth the effort.

-

When dinner was finished, Giselle took her leave of the Comte, hoping against hope that Raoul's brother would detain him for further conversation. The ordeal of supper had well and truly exhausted her, and she had no wish for the Viscomte's company.

She reflected, as she retreated to her room and awaited Charlotte's arrival to help her undress, that she really had little say in the matter. Regardless of with what trappings she was outfitted now, she was still a whore.

She continued to sell herself, now for comfort instead of survival.

_That fact alone makes the sin many times worse_, Giselle thought grimly as she toyed with one of the emeralds on her…no..._Raoul's_ necklace.

Charlotte entered a few moments later, and began to help her with the buttons of the tight green gown, only to be interrupted by a distinctly male voice.

"I believe I will help Miss Daae with that."

-

Charlotte curtseyed and backed from the room without a word. Giselle closed her eyes for a moment as she heard footsteps approach her, felt Raoul's warm breath on the back of her neck, his hands at the buttons of her gown.

They were unloosed in a matter of moments, and Giselle steadied herself for the onslaught, but as soon as the gown was laid open, he stopped. He reached up to the sleeves of the gown and pushed them gently off of her shoulders, but went no further, leaving only the creamy skin of her shoulders and upper back bare.

His fingers slid slowly across the nape of her neck, and Giselle breathed in sharply as she felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. His fingers found the clasp of the necklace and unhinged it, his hands reached up, sliding over her shoulders, gathering the length of glittering emeralds in his fist as his other hand remained at her neck. With one finger he traced the hollow of her throat, and Giselle swallowed nervously.

This was territory unknown to her. She was accustomed to speed, to hasty, sometimes violent assaults on her person. The lingering of his hands on her shoulders and throat was something she had not experienced before. His intent was clear, but he hadn't even kissed her yet!

He had certainly never touched her like this before, in the dank room at Madame Lavage's bordello.

_This is how he treats Christine on his first night with her. A prostitute does not merit such treatment. **Giselle** does not merit such treatment._

That thought helped to quiet the racing of her pulse, helped to cool her blood. She slipped into the merciful daze, the numb acceptance that had carried her through so many nights like this one.

But as Raoul laid the necklace aside and went to work at removing the hairnet, allowing his fingers to drift lazily, _tantalizingly_ along her jaw and temples, Giselle knew that she had never before experienced a night like this one.

Giselle knew that she never would.

-

Raoul closed his eyes as he allowed his hands to caress Giselle. He had never dared touch Christine herself like this, had never dared to attempt anything beyond a chaste kiss. On a few occasions she had allowed him to kiss her more thoroughly, but at the first touch of his hands, she had always drawn away.

Perhaps if he had pursued her, _seduced her,_ she would never have run from him into the arms of the monster.

To think that a phantom had possessed more courage and boldness than he!

Raoul heard Giselle's soft intake of breath and returned to the present. His mind slipped into unreality. This was Christine. This was his lovely fiancée. His mistress. His lover. This was her as she should have been, awaiting his caresses, his ministrations.

_No!_ his mind insisted. _This was her as she is._

He removed the jeweled net from her hair and laid it aside, his fingers slowly removing one pin at a time, torturing both himself and, he was sure, Giselle with his maddeningly deliberate pace.

He was glad that her back was to him, that he could not see her face. She was a near perfect replica of Christine, but there were subtle differences. In Madame Lavage's brothel, it did not matter.

But here it mattered more than anything else. He would not make love to a prostitute tonight in his own home.

Her hair fell down against her shoulders in a thick mass of brunette curls.

He slipped the dress from her body and unlaced the corset, untied her chemise.

He gently took her by the arms and turned her to face him, the only light in the room the glare of the fire.

He inhaled sharply, afraid of what he would see…

…and breathed a sigh of relief.

He saw Christine, her skin glowing golden, her cheeks flushed, her eyes glinting in the firelight.

He leaned forwards and kissed her.


	21. The Penitence of a Prostitute

**Author's Note: I apologize for how long it has taken me to get this chapter up. My computer is not working very well right now and will not load the preview page. I'm using a school computer to post this chapter. It may be a little while before the next chapter comes up, but never fear, it will.**

**Enjoy**

**-**

**Chapter 23: The Penitence of a Prostitute**

Erik awoke to the warmth of firelight on his face and the sounds of Christine moving quietly about the underground bedroom. He stretched languidly, content to watch her from the depths of their bed.

"Where are you off to?" he asked gruffly, a small smile quirking at the edges of his mouth. She looked beautiful, even dressed as she was in a high-necked black gown, hair netted demurely up.

Christine wrapped a black net shawl around her shoulders and walked over to give Erik a quick kiss. "Mass." she replied, reaching over to pick up her prayer book and rosary from the bedside table.

Erik grasped her wrist and pulled her down again for a more satisfying kiss. "We're to be married this afternoon, Christine. You'll have all the church you need then." He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer. "Come back to bed."

Christine shook her head and smiled. "I'm going to Mass, Erik." she intoned firmly. "I haven't missed a Sunday morning service since I was a small child." She kissed him again. "I'll be back in two hours or so. Your breakfast is waiting for you." Smiling, she secured the shawl and turned to leave.

Grumbling, Erik crawled out of bed. There were things still to be done before he took his bride to their new home tonight.

--------------------------

"Christine."

Giselle half-opened her eyes. "Raoul?" she mumbled sleepily, her hand brushing the space next to her in the luxurious bed.

There was no one there.

She tried to quell the unexplainable pang of disappointment, and opened her eyes. Raoul was standing next to the bed.

"Get up, Christine. You're going to miss church."

"What?"

"Mass, Christine. Surely you haven't forgotten what day it is."

"I haven't gone to Mass in years, Raoul." Giselle explained calmly, though her heart had sped up several paces.

"You're going this morning. Get up."

Giselle's voice grew nervous. "I can't, Raoul."

"Of course you can. You _are._ You haven't missed a Sunday morning service since you were a child."

Full-fledged panic crept into Giselle's tone. "I can't go, Raoul. Or have you forgotten who and what I am?"

Raoul smiled mirthlessly. "Hardly. You are Christine Daae, my mistress, and you will do as I say." He turned to the door. "Charlotte!" he called brusquely. "Come and help Miss Daae get dressed for church."

Giselle closed her eyes, steadying her thoughts. She could feel Raoul's absence as he swept from the room, leaving only Charlotte.

"Miss Daae?"

Giselle opened them to see Charlotte looking at her quizzically.

"Are you alright, Miss Daae?"

Giselle nodded. "The black skirt and the white blouse, Charlotte." She climbed wearily from the bed and walked to the dresser.

A worn prayer book and a string of jet black rosary beads with a heavy silver crucifix hanging from it lay atop the dresser.

Giselle opened the book curiously to the first page and glanced at the gilt name inscribed on the first page.

_Comtess Elise de Chagny_

----------------------------

The first bells were tolling when Giselle descended from the de Chagny carriage and stood at the steps of the grand Parisian cathedral—alone. Raoul had not come with her. It would cause too much difficulty, he explained. People would ask questions.

Giselle knew that the real reason was that Raoul's self-deception was not entirely complete, nor would it ever be. He was content to pretend that she was Christine in front of his brother and in his bed, but to be seen socially with her would have been to accept that Giselle was all he would ever have. She was only a plaything, a pretension to be carried on until the real Christine was wooed back into Raoul's arms.

She stared up at the cathedral, fear rising in her throat. She could not bring herself to mount the stairs and enter the doors. Surely God Himself would strike her down if such as she dared enter His holy place.

Her sins were too great and too many to ever be forgiven, even if she had already entered the confessional with a contrite heart and repentant soul.

She had not confessed her sins. She had not received absolution. And she could not enter those doors and sit among the faithful, reciting the prayers that she had long since forgotten and take the Holy Communion.

Not without adding to her many sins.

But she must. For her own sake, she must enter that cathedral and pretend to be what she was not.

It was only what she had done for well nigh on two years.

--------------------------

"Good morning, Father." Christine greeted the priest at the doors as she entered. "You will be performing the ceremony this evening?"

"Of course, Christine." Father Clare smiled. He had known Christine for all of the nine years since she had first come to live at the Opera Populaire. He touched her cheek. "Are you happy, child?"

Christine hesitated only a moment before nodding. "I am."

The elderly priest's brow creased with concern, but he only nodded. "Very well, then." He glanced behind her to see more of the parishioners entering, along with a young woman that he did not recognize. "I will speak with you later, Christine."

Christine nodded and slipped past him to her seat.

-----------------------------

Giselle tried to quiet the racing of her heart as she approached the priest standing at the door. He greeted each of the parishioners in turn, and then his eyes met hers.

"Welcome, mademoiselle." He smiled. "Or is it Madame?"

"It is mademoiselle." Giselle affirmed, her eyes cast down.

"And what is your name, mademoiselle?"

Giselle paused. Raoul would wish her to answer with the name Christine. But surely this priest knew Christine, and would not be fooled. And asides from that…Giselle could not bring herself to lie to a man of God. To do so would be to damn herself further.

"Giselle." she answered quietly. "Giselle Auteur."

"Welcome, Giselle."

-----------------------------

Giselle found a space in one of the back pews, among some of the poorer members of the church. She affixed a properly penitent expression on her face, watching Father Clare solemnly as he stood before the altar and made the sign of the cross over the parishioners, as all the while she glanced surreptitiously about the congregation for a woman who looked like her.

She did not see Christine.

She snapped back to the present as the priest began to speak, and hurriedly kneeled with the rest of the congregation as he began to speak.

She closed her eyes as he began to recite the forty-second Psalm, allowing the distantly familiar words to flow over her.

For a brief moment, she felt young again, innocent, kneeling beside her mother, a worn wooden rosary clasped in her childish fingers instead of this expensive set of glass beads. She smelled the soft, soothing scent of the lavender sachet that her mother had kept among her clothing, the one concession that she had made to her own pleasure.

She heard her father's rough voice mingled with her mother's beautiful lilting tones as they made their confession to God. She murmured the words softly, her mind still far away in a time that, despite its hardship, had been perhaps the most beautiful of her seventeen years.

"I confess to Almighty God…"

And then, she was no longer a small child, but Giselle Auteur, alias Christine Daae, again a prostitute of two years now paid to impersonate a young diva. The sound of her own voice brought her back, no longer the halting tones of a child just learning the prayers, but a young woman aged beyond her years, not in body but in mind and soul.

A small, twisted voice echoed in her mind, taunting her as she clenched her fingers tightly around the rosary, reciting with the others the confession.

_All liars shall have their place in the Lake of Fire,_ _Giselle. Your spot is growing hotter every moment that you kneel here in false piety and unrepentance._

"…and to all the Saints, and to you, Father, that I have sinned exceedingly in thought, word, and deed…"

She had to choke back a bitter laugh. She glanced to either side at the kneeling penitents. They all murmured these words, but she was sure that many of them did not truly think that they had sinned _exceedingly._ A bit, perhaps, but not exceedingly.

Ah, she had sinned exceedingly. And when she had made her confession before God and received absolution, she would sin again tonight and perhaps the night after that, and every night until the day that she died and drowned herself for all eternity in that lake of fire reserved for liars and whores such as she.

"…therefore I beseech the Blessed Mary, ever Virgin…"

_What right have you to beseech a virgin? _

The confession was finished a few sentences later, and Father Clare intoned over them:

"May Almighty God have mercy on you, forgive you your sins, and bring you to life everlasting."

_There is no forgiveness for you. But ah, yes, there is life everlasting for you. An eternity of suffering to atone for this life's sins._

Father Clare made the sign of the cross over them again and they, still kneeling, continued on with the petitions for forgiveness of sins and purity.

"Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy." she whispered during the Kyrie.

No words she had ever spoken had been so heartfelt or true.

_There is no mercy for you._

------------------------

Christine stood further forward in the congregation, but she glanced back for a moment as they sang the Gloria.

A young brunette woman caught her eye, dressed in a plain, but finely crafted black skirt and white blouse. She was clutching a set of black rosary beads, so tightly that her knuckles were turning white.

It was not the state of her dress or hands that caught Christine's attention, however.

It was the expression on her face, an expression full of emotion so strong that it could not be put-upon, as were the expressions on so many of the faces here.

There was pleading etched on every contour of the girl's face, and in the depths of her brown eyes, a sorrow too deep for any words.

With a start, Christine remembered another person's eyes, staring into her own, the same pleading etched onto his face, a pleading for acceptance and forgiveness, the same sorrow welling from his eyes.

_And in his eyes, all the sadness of the world…_

Erik…

----------------------------

At last they reached the Nicene, and the congregation stood. Giselle brushed a strand of hair from her eyes, joining the congregation as they recited the creed.

"I believe in the one God, the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth, and of all things visible and invisible. And in one Lord Jesus Christ…"

_Do you really believe, Giselle? Or do you lie yet again?_

Giselle caught her breath as she continued the recitation. Did she really believe in God anymore? Did she believe in a Being who could look down on the suffering of hundreds like her and not do anything?

If there was a God, He had forsaken her long ago.

She dropped a few coins into the plate as it was passed during the Offertory, given her by Raoul.

This offering, at least, was not tainted.

The preparation of the altar for Communion went on for some time, as all the while Giselle's heart beat steadily faster.

She had been raised since she was a child to believe in the teachings of the Church concerning the Holy Eucharist, and she knew that, in her unabsolved and unrepentant state, she was unworthy and forbidden, by the rules of the Church, to take Communion.

But to support her façade, she must.

Idly, she wondered with impersonal curiosity what would happen when she received the sacred bread and wine. Would God strike her down publicly for her many sins? Would some divine force fall from heaven and consume her at the foot of the altar as happened in the catechism stories?

"For this is my Body…"

She would find out in a moment.

"For this is the Chalice of my Blood…"

"Our Father which art in Heaven…"

_Oh God, why have you forsaken me?_

"Thy kingdom come…"

_That I may be expelled…_

"Give us this day our daily bread…"

_Which I am unworthy to receive…_

"…forgive us our trespasses,"

_Mine are too many to be forgiven._

"And lead us not into temptation…"

_My only temptation is to escape from my present condition and give in to death…oh, God, deliver me from the temptation of others and deliver me to temptation…let me die…_

"But deliver us from evil…"

_Please._

"Deliver me by this Your most sacred Body and Blood from all my sins…which I, though unworthy, presume to receive…"

_And in so doing am duly damned…_

Giselle knelt at the altar and closed her eyes as Father Clare administered the Eucharist. The bread touched her tongue, and the sensation was so foreign that she felt once again as though she were a small child again, receiving her first Communion.

But it could never be.

Innocence lost could not be regained.

-----------------------

As Christine knelt and waited to receive her Communion, she glanced at the brunette. The same childlike expression was on her face again, and Christine wondered at this young woman who seemed so hopeless and bitter, and yet so innocent at the same time.

Who was she?

Where had she come from?

Christine knew that she had never seen her before, and yet she knew all of the people who attended Mass at least marginally.

She made up her mind to catch the girl before she left and find out just who she was.

-----------------------

"May your Body, O Lord, which I have eaten, and Your Blood which I have drunk, cleave to my soul and grant that no trace of sin be found in me…"

_Too late for such privileges. You are purely sinful, Giselle, you cannot be cleansed._

The priest made the sign of the cross over the altar and then himself, then blessed the congregation.

Giselle traced her fingers over the rosary as she recited three Hail Marys with the congregation, eager to leave.

Finally, Father Clare spoke again.

"Most Sacred Heart of Jesus, have mercy on us."

Giselle echoed it, then rose with the rest of the congregation.

She turned towards the doors, then suddenly just behind her caught sight of a beautiful young brunette.

The woman looked much like Giselle herself.

_Christine…_

She was the picture of an angel, all white skin and wide, innocent brown eyes.

She was the woman Giselle longed to be.

And she was walking towards her.

Giselle bolted.


	22. What God Has Joined Together

**A/N:**

**Apologies again for the delay, I'll try to update more readily in the future. I promise the next chapter will be forthcoming very soon.**

**Please enjoy and review!**

**-**

**Chapter 24: What God Has Joined Together…**

Christine paused in surprise as the young brunette, upon catching her gaze, turned and fled from the cathedral.

"Wait!" Christine cried, taking several hurried steps forwards. The milling parishioners cut her off, and she tried to politely force her way through the crowd, but by the time she reached the doors, the girl was gone.

Christine bit her lip in frustration, her curiosity raging. She had been going to Mass at this cathedral for nine years, and never before had she seen the brunette girl.

_Who was she?_

A hand on her shoulder caused her to turn, and she saw Father Clare's kindly eyes boring into hers.

"Are you alright, my child?"

"That girl, Father, the brunette who…"

"Who looks like you?" Father Clare smiled. "Her name is Giselle."

"Have you ever seen her before?"

The priest shook his head. "Never, Christine." He frowned at her worried expression. "She is probably traveling through the city, and paused to enjoy a respite of worship. It happens often. Do not worry yourself over it."

Christine nodded obediently, but the image of the young brunette's tormented eyes and the obvious fear in them when she had bolted remained in her mind…along with something else.

And as Christine listened with half an ear as Father Clare explained to her details of the evening's ceremony, it came to her in a flash. In the girl's eyes, along with fear, there had been something else.

_Recognition._

-

The ivory keys were yellowed with age.

Erik traced his fingers slowly over them, feeling the hollows where his insistent fingers had worn them down. Even in the silence, he could hear new melodies being woven, notes dancing about him, begging to be taken and placed into coherence, to be turned into _music_.

He could feel years of spent emotion emanating from the keys of the aged instrument. It had borne the brunt of his greatest rages and deepest sorrows, had been the outlet for unslaked lust and unrequited love.

Here, in the worn ebony wood and faded ivory of a musical instrument, lay the paradox of life, that beauty and majesty could be spun from rage, lust, hatred and murderous intent. That Heavenly delights could be woven from the threads of Hellish designs.

That angels could love demons and together ascend to Paradise.

He settled himself at the worn bench and placed his fingers over the hollows in the keys.

One last time.

-

Madame Giry ran her fingers almost reverently over the smooth white silk as she lay Christine's wedding gown on the bed. The delicate silver filigree of the headpiece that was the framework of the frothy white veil had been stripped of its old rose circlet, dried and crumbling, and replaced with fresh new roses.

Blood red and black, at Erik's insistence.

The smooth, haunting melody that was filtering up into the opera house from the catacombs sent chills up Antoinette's spine. It was like Erik, deceptively beautiful and almost gentle on the surface.

But somewhere within the spun glass of the notes was a hidden thread. A thread of notes that could explode suddenly from the instrument, twisted and tortured, filled with rage and pain, a murderously sharp piece of broken glass rattling within the perfect exterior of the soft, beautiful tune.

She had heard it before.

She had seen it before.

She walked from Christine's room, the wedding ensemble prepared for Christine, who, in just a few hours, would stand in her room as Madame Giry helped her to dress.

And, a short time later, would bind herself for all eternity to a man who loved her unconditionally, completely, obsessively.

_Dangerously._

-

It was a quarter past four when Antoinette Giry knocked on Christine's door and was met with a muted: "Come in."

The ballet mistress let herself in and shut the door behind her, taking in the girl's appearance with a quick glance.

Christine was already dressed in the lace stockings and silk chemise that were part of her wedding trousseau, was sitting on the edge of the bed, her face pale.

"Am I doing the right thing, Madame Giry?"

Antoinette looked up, surprised.

"You love him, no?"

"Of course I love him. I don't mean am I doing the right thing by marrying him. I don't question that. What I mean is—am I doing the right thing by asking him to join the outside world?"

Madame Giry walked over to Christine and took her face in her hands. "Christine, you asked nothing of him. He made the decision to leave the darkness himself. He told me himself that you never spoke of it to him. He has made this choice. For you, yes, but never fear that he will do anything more than what he wishes. Erik has never been one to acquiesce to others, Christine."

Madame Giry laced up Christine's corset and helped her into the dress, her fingers nimbly doing the laces on the back of the silk gown. She turned Christine to face her and touched the girl's face gently.

"He loves you, Christine. I have no doubt of that. But never expect to understand him, and never ask him to change. Most of all, never try to control him."

Antoinette took a last look at Christine's youthful, hopeful face, remembering her own wedding day.

She had felt like a princess, her whole world centered on one man and one dream. The ballet mistress's eyes misted over slightly as she set the silver circlet twined with roses on Christine's head. She leaned in and kissed the girl's cheek, then dropped the sheer lace of the veil, obscuring Christine's delicate features.

-

Erik thought he would go mad when Christine stepped through the doors of the church, her face hidden by the heavy lace veil. He stood by the altar, dressed impeccably in a tailored black suit, the imperfect side of his face covered by his white half-mask.

He watched her glide down the aisle, her bouquet of red and black roses a splash of dangerous color against the perfect white of her gown.

He focused on those roses, remembering the amusing quirk of Madame Giry's eyebrows when he insisted on such untraditional colors, instead of the pure, virginal white that she had suggested, mixed with the chastely loving light red rose.

The waves of pure white silk and frothy lace cascading over her slender body and delicate face were a testament to the innocent angel who had stolen his heart and soul, the ethereal being who had blushed in maidenly surprise when his hands had touched her, despite the barrier of silken dressing gown and corset, the sweet voice that had sung not for a man of flesh and blood but a unseen teacher that she had naively believed to be an angel.

The red and black roses that contrasted so sharply told a different story. They spoke of passion and of fire, of a night on the stage when all was velvety tones and flaming desire, when lust had hung thick and heavy in the air, winding tendrils of desire languorously about them.

Combined, the red and the black and the white, the innocence and the passion, the chastity and the desire, the angelic and the demonic, the still waters and the blazing fire, the body and the soul, the light and the darkness, the maiden and the seduction.

Combined, the angel from Heaven and the angel in Hell.

Combined, he and his Christine.

-

Madame Giry, very untraditionally, was the one who walked Christine down the aisle. Normally, her father should have done the honors, but he was dead, and there was no other man in the world that Christine wished to give her away.

Madame Giry, the woman who had been like a mother to she and Erik both, seemed the logical choice.

And so, the cathedral empty save for Madame Giry, Meg, Andre and Firmin, Christine walked down the aisle to stand beside Erik, the last man that any inhabitant of France would have expected to see a bridegroom.

Father Clare cleared his throat, and the couple turned their attention to him.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here tonight in the presence of God and man to witness the joining of these two, Christine Daae and Erik Couturier, in the bonds of holy matrimony."

He looked at Erik. "Erik Couturier, will you take Christine Daae here present, for your lawful wife according to the rite of our Holy Mother, the Catholic Church?"

Erik's voice was steady as he answered.

"I will."

"Christine Daae, will you take Erik Couturier here present, for your lawful husband, according to the rite of our Holy Mother, the Catholic Church."

"I will."

Her voice trembled when she said it.

Father Clare smiled. "Now repeat after me. I, Erik Couturier."

"I, Erik Couturier."

Erik saw the tears begin to rise in Madame Giry's eyes as she heard her maiden name fall from his lips so easily.

"Take thee, Christine Daae…"

"Take thee, Christine Daae…"

"For my wife..."

"For my wife…"

_To be mine and mine alone…_

"To have and to hold…"

_One love, one lifetime…_

"From this day forward…"

_Anywhere you go, let me go too…_

"For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.

_Christine, that's all I ask of you._

"I, Christine Daae…"

_Do you see me, father? Me…and your Angel of Music._

"Take thee, Erik Couturier…"

_We are angels, both of us._

"For my husband…"

_Do you see me, mother? Did you feel this way on your wedding day?_

"To have and to hold…"

_Nervous, at the same time intensely happy? Was my father all the world to you?_

"From this day forward…"

_Are you proud of me, mother? How I wish you were here. You and Father both…_

"For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part."

Her thoughts and eyes turned to Erik.

_Will you ever come to believe that with all your heart? Will you ever trust in my love beyond all doubt?_

A brilliant ruby ring found its way onto her left ring finger, followed by a diamond wedding band.

_Till death do us part, Erik. _

"With this ring I thee wed and pledge to thee my troth, Christine Daae…"

She found her wits and slid a similar golden band onto his left finger.

"With this ring, I thee wed, and pledge to thee my troth, Erik Couturier…"

_One love, one lifetime…_

It was only then that she saw that the diamond band was her mother's wedding ring, and tears rose high and hot in her eyes.

Father Clare's voice rang joyously in their ears as he lifted his hands and made the sign of the Cross over them.

"What God has joined together, let no man put asunder. I pronounce thee husband and wife. You may kiss your bride."

Erik's strong musician's hands lifted the heavy lace of her veil and he took in her features for a moment, pale with the overwhelming newness of it all, her amber eyes wide and wondrous…and full of love.

For him.

He took her face in his hand and bent his mouth to hers, filling her every sense, his lips moving slowly against hers, tongue close enough for seduction but far enough for propriety, a promise of the night to come.

They parted at last, and they turned to the congratulations of the managers, Madame Giry and Meg.

It was an hour before they left the church.

-

The promise of evening hung heavy and cool in the air as the hired carriage pulled up in front of the modest white house that Erik had purchased.

He lifted Christine from the carriage and carried her over the threshold, her light form nestled in his arms, her head resting against his shoulder.

He set her down once they were inside the door and took her face in his hands again, kissing her hotly and thoroughly, his tongue sliding slowly between her lips and filling her mouth, causing her to arch her back and moan softly.

He swept her up in his arms again, feeling with satisfaction the new heat of her skin, and mounted the flight of stairs to the bedroom, her soft sounds of anticipation in his ears, his own blood thundering in his veins.

This was not their first night together, but they had spent only two other nights like this.

It would not have mattered whether this was their first or their twentieth, Erik intended that this night would be different from all others.

This, their wedding night.

**-**

**A/N:**

**Warning: The next chapter will be the wedding night scene, and definitely rated R. The reason that I have separated them is so that those who wish to read it may, while those who do not can skip it without missing anything. It will not be smut, but definitely a hot and steamy scene.**

**It should be up soon.**


	23. What Raging Fire

**A/N**

**WARNING: This chapter is most definitely rated 'R' for explicit sex. I've tried very hard to not write it as a smutty love scene, and keep it tasteful, as always. **

**C'mon guys, it's the wedding night!**

**Enjoy!**

**-**

**Chapter 25: What Raging Fire**

He set her down as soon as they stepped inside the bedroom, and turned from her to close the heavy door behind them. All was darkness for a moment, and then he walked to the fireplace.

The fire built, bathing the room in a warm glow, and Christine's eyes widened. A huge four-poster canopy bed was the centerpiece of the room, hung with heavy crimson velvet, with a lush coverlet of the same. From beneath peeked a red and a black silk sheet, and the silk-covered pillows were a mixture of solid scarlet and solid black.

Two armchairs were by the fireplace, crimson velvet upholstery, and the carpet was thick and lush beneath Christine's bare feet as she kicked off her slippers, but at the moment, she had eyes only for the magnificent bed.

Erik was not so eager to leap straightforwardly into the bed, however. Seduction, complete seduction, beyond even their first night together was his intent. He planned on making this night one that would wipe all others from her mind, as mere play compared to the passion and fire that he planned to show her tonight.

She was still dressed fully in her wedding garb, and he moved to help her with it, loosening his cravat as his fingers brushed the edge of her jawline and began to move slowly up her face, barely touching.

The tips of his long, graceful fingers brushed her temples, curled briefly in the tendrils of brunette curls that he found there, then gently lifted the frothy lace and silver filigree from her head.

Rose petals fell to the carpet, a few catching in her hair, and Erik left them. Deftly he removed the pins from her hair, allowing it to fall loose and captivatingly free about her shoulders.

Then, he stepped away from her, removing his jacket and stepping to the table beside the armchairs, where a bottle of fine wine and two crystal goblets stood. He poured a small amount of the rich crimson liquid into each of the glasses, and then offered one to her.

Christine took a dainty sip, the scarlet liquid coloring her lips. She did not notice when Erik downed the small amount in his glass in two sips, and then gracefully came around to stand behind her.

She did not notice until she felt his heated breath on her neck, his fingers lifting her hair and laying it gently over one shoulder, leaving the pale skin of her neck exposed.

His fingers, first, traced over the silky flesh, then replaced with his lips trailing from the nape of her neck to the place between her shoulders, his hands moving gently, fingers splayed, across the pale velvet of her upper chest, tracing the neckline of her gown, but going no further.

His tongue darted from between his lips, barely touching, fluttering over her skin and elicting a sudden gasp from her lips. Christine's head tilted back, her eyelids fluttering as he continued his torturous play.

His lips traced a fiery trail over her shoulders, his teeth nipping at the harsh line of her collarbone. Her back arched and a small moan escaped, her eyes closing and her hand tightening about the fragile glass.

Erik reached around and gently removed the wine glass from her hand, and refilled it halfway, then handed it to her. "Drink it." he invited, a small smile curving the edges of his lips as he watched her waver, unsteady on her feet, then raise the glass to her trembling mouth.

He took the opportunity to stoke the fire, then returned to his bride. He stood behind her, his strong hands slowly unlacing the back of her gown one hook at a time, his hot breath and smooth lips always just a hairsbreadth from the sensitive skin of her throat.

Christine's breath hitched time and time again as he worked his way torturously down her neck, his lips barely touching her skin, moving down a fraction with the unloosing of each button, each lace. Her breathing grew ragged as she realized that he hadn't even begun on her corset yet!

The gown slipped partially from her shoulders as it loosened, and Erik's strong, long-fingered hands ran slowly over her skin, edging the gown down her body slowly. The crush of silk slipped down to pool about her feet, and his hands went to her waist again, tugging at the laces of the corset until it was loosened. His own breathing ragged, he threw the restrictive garment aside, and then slowed his pace once more, his hands sliding slowly up her body, from her hips to the sensuous curve of her waist, finally lingering on the smooth silk covering her small, but perfect breasts.

Christine bit back a cry as the tips of his fingers made slow, hot circles, arching her back, fingers curling in the air. Erik began a slow descent down the expanse of back bared by the chemise, kissing and nipping his way down her spine in time with the slow progress of his fingers across her breasts.

She spun then, unable to bear the exquisite torture any longer. Her mouth came down on his, and Erik reeled, surprised at such forcefulness from his delicate Christine. It did not last long—the kiss soon slowed to a controlled pace, and Erik returned it, his hands returning to her waist, her arms around his neck as they kissed leisurely.

She tasted of wine, her mouth hot and sweet, and he groaned aloud, his gentle musician's hands hardening into a strong grip about her waist. He pulled her harshly against him, her soft body flush with his, and her eyes widened with a last trace of maidenly surprise as she felt him, hard and insistent against her.

Christine moaned into his mouth as his tongue waged a delicate war with her own, her hands fumbling feverishly from his face to his neck to the front of his shirt, where her nimble fingers began to make quick work of the ivory buttons. He allowed her to go halfway before he pinioned her hands to her sides with his own, his mouth dropping from her lips to brush tantalizingly along her jawbone and down her throat, his teeth grazing her delicate skin as he went.

She freed her hands and slipped them inside of his crisp linen shirt, stroking the heated skin, tangling her fingers in the curling black hair on his chest. His fingers pressed into her hips through the smooth silk of her chemise, and her hands reached around to his back, nails digging in and sliding down on either side of his spine.

Erik groaned, a half-strangled cry in his throat as he arched his back and gripped her hips tightly, pulling her against him in a desperate attempt to alleviate the ache where her hips met his own. She slid against him sensuously, delighting in the sounds that emanated from his mouth each time she moved against him.

He kissed her again, more gently this time, but it kindled the fire building within Christine hotter still, and she finished unbuttoning his shirt, pulling away from him only long enough to remove the garment completely from his body.

He picked her up then and carried her to the bed, standing over her as he sat her on the edge, fingers sliding slowly along her shoulders as he pushed the chemise away from her. The firelight flickered on her skin, and glittered in her eyes, wide and glazed with desire. He pushed her gently back onto the velvet coverlet, completely nude save for the lace stockings she still wore. He left those alone for the moment, and joined her on the bed, kneeling over her as he kissed her again, his mouth plundering hers before beginning a slow journey over her body.

Christine arched her back as he paused for a moment at the hollow of her throat, tongue darting out and circling around the small depression before his lips moved lower, to trace the outline of first one small breast, then the other. She closed her eyes, fingers digging into the velvet blanket beneath her.

His teeth nipped suddenly at the hard, rosy peak of her breast, and she cried out, a low, strangled sound in her throat. He continued on, not deigning to stay in one spot long. When his mouth reached the soft flesh of her inner thigh, she drew her legs up, begging him silently. But his mouth remained on her leg, moving slowly down to the garters of her lace stockings. His fingers slid sensuously down the silk of her calf, unrolling the lace slowly, his mouth and tongue following, covering the skin inch by inch, and replacing with hot kisses where the cool lace had lain.

His mouth swept over the arch of her foot, and Christine's toes curled with the sensation. "Please, Erik…" she begged suddenly, but he would not adhere until he had done the same to her left leg and stocking.

Christine lay then, completely nude on the bed, the firelight turning her skin a rich glow of gold, a faint sheen of sweat already lacing her body. Erik returned to her mouth then, his sinuous body stretched the length of her own, hovering over her with a torturous proximity. Her fingers reached up to trace the lines of his beloved face, and they gripped the edge of his mask.

He made a move to stop her, but she kissed his lips gently, the fires dimmed for only a moment. "I love you, Erik." she whispered softly, and pulled the mask from his face, tossing it from the bed onto the floor. "Not for this…" and here she placed a gentle hand on his deformed cheek, "…but for this." Christine laid her hand over his chest, where his heart was racing madly in time to a raging fire that was coming ever closer to claim them both.

Erik could not remember a moment in his life when he had been more ready, or desired more greatly, to be utterly consumed.

He stripped away his trousers, the last barrier between them, and settled between Christine's legs as she reached up to touch his face, claiming his mouth in a gentle kiss.

_What raging fire shall flood the soul…_

He came into her slowly, mindful that she was as yet very inexperienced, and Christine felt only waves of pleasure as his fingers trailed over her body.

_What rich desire unlocks its door…_

Erik moved slowly, savoring the feel of her body beneath him, enveloping him, the taste of her mouth as he kissed her again, ever so gently, rubbing his lips against hers and fluttering his tongue within her mouth, restraining the urge to increase his pace when she moaned into his mouth and arched her body against his, setting him afire.

_What sweet seduction lies before us…_

He seduced her, body, mind and soul, with torturously slow movements and hot, gentle kisses. She cried out beneath him, writhed until he thought he would go mad, and the raging fires burned hotter as he maintained the slow, tormenting pace.

Erik lowered his mouth to the place where her pulse beat, delighting as he felt it beat wildly against his lips. "Oh, God, Erik!" Christine cried out as he bit down on her collarbone, and her hands left his shoulders to press against the muscles of his naked back as he increased his pace fractionally.

_Past the point of no return…_

Memories of her body pressed against his on the stage, her eyes closed in rapture as his hands slid over her filled his mind. With them came the damning thought of Raoul de Chagny, and he clenched his jaw, stilling over her body for a moment.

Christine thought she would scream. "Erik, please…" she moaned, her nails digging into his back.

_The final threshold…_

Erik ran his hands down her body as she arched against him, strong and hard, feeling the curves of her figure, her smooth, sweat-slicked flesh. He gripped her hips and thrust into her suddenly, hard. Christine moaned aloud, her legs entwining with his as she raised to meet him. "Oh, God, Erik…"

_The bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn…_

"_Mine._" He whispered savagely as his pace changed from slow and gentle to hard and furious in the space of an instant, the need to love her replaced with the need to possess her entirely. "You are mine, Christine!"

"_Yes…_" she hissed through her teeth, slamming her body against his and pressing her mouth painfully to his lips, biting, her tongue sliding into his mouth and her nails digging into his back until she felt a trickle of blood. "God, Erik!"

Her entire body convulsed, and she bit back a scream, a strangled cry erupting from her mouth nonetheless, sobbing out Erik's name as her body trembled all around him. A second later, he was shaking above her, and she clung to him as he slowed his frantic pace within her, his strokes once again slow and gentle until the final waves of pleasure had coursed through them.

_We've passed the point of no return._

He withdrew from her then, and rolled over to lay beside her, taking her left hand in his own. "My wife, Christine." he whispered in complete wonder. "My _wife!_"

"Yes, Erik." She leaned forwards and wrapped her hand around the back of his head, drawing him down for another kiss. "I am yours."

He kissed her again, and the slow stirrings of desire raised in them both.

It was sweet and slow, until they both were spent again and this time lay still, Christine nestled against Erik.

Sleep began to wash over them both, but in that fraction of an instant, in that space between waking and sleeping, Erik heard Christine's gentle voice whisper: "I love you."

It was, to Erik Couturier, as though the past thirty-nine years of misery had been but a day, so unimportant and far away did they seem in that instant, when he held the woman that he loved against him and fell asleep tangled in each others arms.

_One love, one lifetime._

With _him._


	24. To Say Her Name

**A/N:**

**This chapter definitely holds to the PG-13 rating for sensuality. Please keep this in mind.**

**In advance, please, no flames for the cliffhanger unless it is constructive criticism. It is important to the plot.**

**And, I will try to have the next chapter up as soon as possible.**

**Enjoy, and please, please review. **

**-**

**Chapter 26: To Say Her Name**

There was one unspoken rule that every prostitute knew without ever having to be told. From the moment that a young lady walked through the doors of a brothel, she understood that one rule, without ever having to be told. It was that obvious.

Never fall in love.

Giselle had followed that rule religiously. From the beginning, she had taught herself to detach her conscious mind from the task at hand, focusing on anything but what was happening at that moment.

In the dank, dirty room of the brothel, it was easy.

In the opulent surroundings of the de Chagny mansion, making love almost nightly to a man who touched her with infinite care and gentleness, who seemed to almost worship her, it was more difficult.

It was only the knowledge of who he really saw when she stood before him that kept Giselle from falling utterly into the web that he had spun.

There were times when she lost her own grasp on reality, when she could almost believe that she was this Christine that Raoul had hired her to become. After all, Giselle had been a name and nothing more for well nigh on two years. She had nothing left of herself. Why should she not be this Christine, fully?

But when the _real_ Christine returned to Raoul, Giselle knew that her time of comfortable surreality would be ended.

She would have to become Giselle again.

This alone kept her from sharing the Viscomte's madness.

It did not keep her from falling in love with him.

-

Christine had never before realized how much she had missed the simple pleasures of life.

Things like sitting at the dinner table with someone you loved, enjoying a meal by candlelight and talking of things utterly inconsequential.

Or standing in the fire-lit great room and singing a quiet melody as your husband played the piano.

Her _husband._

It seemed almost unreal, like a blissfully wonderful dream.

And she knew that all dreams ended.

-

Giselle sat by the fire, robed in a silk dressing gown, a book lying idly in her hands. Her long brunette curls were held back from her face, but most of their satiny wealth tumbled loosely down her back.

She did not need to look up to know who it was that entered her room. His appetite for her was near insatiable, like a starving man who was presented suddenly with a sumptuous feast.

She did not complain. Each day that he was content to see her, each night that she pleased him was one more day that she would not sleep away, one more night that she would not sell to dirty, unpleasant men.

She sold both her days and her nights now, but to sell them to one man was better than to sell them to a hundred.

He stood behind her now, and she kept her eyes fixed on her book. He touched her neck gently, and she leaned her head back automatically, but did not allow herself to receive his touch. She bent willingly to his demands, but she felt nothing. That was what she had always done. It was habit.

But tonight, as he ran his fingers through her thick hair and along her scalp, loosening the few pins and allowing them to drop carelessly to the thick carpet below, she wondered what it would be like if she dropped her guard for one night.

What would she feel in his arms?

She stood then, and moved towards him, swaying seductively, a goddess of allure in the dim, fire-lit room. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders and framed her face, and the fire shot sparks of gold in her dark eyes.

Raoul breathed in unsteadily.

Giselle knew that he saw Christine. Beautiful Christine, touched only by him, his prima donna, the leading lady of his life and his bed.

She looked into his eyes, and she saw the man that she loved. Loved, she knew, to what would be her greater grief, in the end. Perhaps, she thought to herself, she had loved him from the moment he had purchased her, however temporarily, from Madame Lavage's hell.

If, for one night, she dropped all pretenses and all facades, if for one night she looked into his eyes instead of tracing the patterns on the ceiling, if, for one night she did not deaden her mind and her body to his every caress, what would she feel?

If she gave herself, Giselle, to him, would he know the difference?

She determined to find out.

-

Christine lay beside Erik that night, her hair tousled and mussed, her limbs tired. He had fallen asleep, and the sound of his steady breathing beside her relaxed her mind as well as her body.

Two weeks had passed since their marriage. Erik had spent his days at the Opera Populaire, overseeing the reconstruction of both the exterior and interior damage. Christine had remained at home, fixing up the little house and yard to her heart's delight.

At night, he helped her feeble attempts to make a dinner for them, letting her feel as though she were, in fact, in charge, while he made additives based on what he had learned from books and such over the years.

Afterwards, he would play the piano for her, sometimes with her accompaniment, other times without.

And when the hours stopped drifting together and the music stopped, he carried her upstairs and the hours flowed into each other once again.

-

Giselle's breath caught in her throat as Raoul's fingers trailed down her neck. So _this_ is what it feels like, she thought to herself. Gooseflesh raised on her skin as he replaced his fingers with his lips, his hands moving to her waist and hips.

The sash of the dressing gown came loose and the silken fabric fell away from her body. His hands met bare flesh, and Giselle's breath became ragged.

It was a matter of moments only before they fell together onto the velvet covers of the luxurious bed.

-

Erik rolled over, his eyes a touch mirthful. "So, Christine, darling, you cannot sleep?"

Christine smiled. "A touch of insomnia is all."

"Perhaps you simply are not tired enough." He touched her lips playfully.

Christine tried to hide the catch in her breath.

"Not tired enough at all." He removed his finger from her lips and pressed his own mouth onto hers. "Do you think you can sleep now, Christine?"

"I think, Erik, that sleep is the furthest thing from my mind."

-

Could it be, Giselle wondered, in this moment, when the fires of passion burned higher and hotter than the flames in the grate just beyond, that Raoul might see her, Giselle, instead of Christine?

There was only one way to find out.

Her hand came up to touch his face, and when his eyes met hers, she breathed out, hardly able to speak, "Say my name, Raoul."

He hesitated a moment.

Her voice was low and husky, breathless. "Say my name."

_God please, if ever you have been merciful to me, if ever you have desired my happiness or a moment of respite from the misery of deceit that has plagued me for so long…please…just this once…let him see me. Let him see _me.

Her fingers entwined in his hair.

"Christine!"

-

Erik touched her face gently as he kissed her again. "Christine…" he whispered against her lips.

For a sudden, startling moment, Christine thought that the voice that had said her name was Raoul's. Her shock was so great that one word spilled unthinkingly from her lips.

"Raoul?"


	25. Let No Man Put Asunder

**A/N:**

**Here is the answer to the cliffie, and yet another one, I'm afraid.**

**Please read, enjoy, and REVIEW!**

**Chapter 27: …Let No Man Put Asunder**

**-**

Christine was spared one moment.

And in that moment, the calm before the storm, the moment between the ember and the blaze, Christine saw Erik's face twist into a horrible caricature of pure, unadulterated rage—far worse than his deformity had ever been—and she knew with terrible certainty that with one simple word, the hallucination of a distant memory, her idyllic world was to topple to irrevocable ruin.

_Those eyes that burn…_

There was fire in Erik's eyes now, a conflagration of fury, and Christine felt fear in his presence as she had not felt since the night of _Don Juan_. Yet even then, she had known that he would never harm her.

Tonight, however, the anger in his face was so terrible that she felt an insane urge to begin the prayer for the dying.

And then, she looked into his eyes, and behind the rage, she saw the glimmer of a tear, a sudden hopeless resignation, and she knew then that all was lost.

In that moment, her life mattered to her not a whit.

Her soul was already dying.

-

"_Christine!"_

Giselle went numb. Her mind, on fire with passion and filled with hope that should have been slaughtered long ago with her innocence, ground to a halt.

If Raoul sensed the sudden change in her, the switch from willing to simply compliant, he was too caught up in the moment to care.

Giselle's eyes slid shut against an onslaught of tears, and she prayed silently for the night to be over soon.

He had called Christine's name.

What had she expected?

What should she have expected?

Nothing more.

-

With a suddenness that stole Christine's breath, the storm broke.

Without warning, Erik lifted her halfway off of the bed and threw her forcefully onto her back, his hands gripping her wrists painfully and pressing her down into the bed.

"Say that name again, Christine." The dangerous calm in his voice, belied by the pain of his fingers digging into her arms, dared her to obey him.

Speechless with shock and fear, Christine could only shake her head.

"Damn you, Christine!" he screamed, and pain raged as fiercely as the anger in his voice. "You lying Delilah! Jezebel! _Whore_!"

Christine shut her eyes tightly against the accusation in his words, tears escaping from beneath the lids. She shook her head from side to side. "No, Erik, no!" she cried. "You don't understand!"

_"I understand!_" he roared. "You thought you escaped me! You thought Erik Couturier was a different man, even if he wore the mask! You thought by giving me a name and dragging me into the light of day, you could change what I am! _I am a demon, Christine_! A devil with an angel's voice, fallen straight into the pits of _Hell_!" His voice broke for a moment. "I thought I had found Heaven. I thought an angel had come to save me." The rage returned. "But you masquerade under a mask too! You are a demon too, Christine, and what I thought was Heaven is only a _more terrible Hell_!"

Christine tried to raise her hands to cover her ears, tried to form words of rebuttal, but her arms were still pinioned to the bed and her voice would not work, it was broken, and Erik was still raging.

"I am still Erik _le Fantôme, _Christine! And you will _never_ escape. I'll always be there, inside your mind. But that's what you want, isn't it, Christine? I gave you a chance to leave and you wouldn't take it. You knew where you belonged, _who and what you belonged to_." He pressed his mouth forcefully down on hers, bruising her lips. "You are mine, Christine. _Mine_!"

Christine whimpered with pain. "Erik, let me go, please." she pleaded.

"Let you go?" He growled low in his throat. "You can leave me, Christine, any time that you wish. But I will _never_ let you go. You belong to _me_. You belong to the night." He laughed insanely. "Did you think that I _stole_ your soul, Christine? I stole nothing. You _sold_ your soul to me." He released her wrists and Christine sobbed with pain, the sudden flow of blood to her numb hands more painful than Erik's death grip had been.

He ran his hands down her sides, and laughed when her eyes fluttered shut. "Yes, Christine. You belong to me."

"Erik…" she sobbed, knowing there was no chance of escape, knowing that if she tried to run he would kill her, that he might kill her anyway, and he would not listen, knowing that, even if he let her go now, she would never want to leave. She belonged to him. She had not betrayed him as he believed, but in that much he was right. She had always belonged to him.

He did not listen. Her thin, pleading voice flew past him like a whisper, and he laughed again when he pinioned her hands above her head and kissed her roughly, and her nails dug into his hands.

"You want me even now. You writhe and cry out for me to free you, but you would never escape, even if I would free you. You would remain a prisoner all your life, Christine, and you would be a willing prisoner, all the while crying out what a monster I am, but you would keep me inside your mind, and if I ever left, you would _beg me on your knees to return_!"

"Erik, please listen to me!"

"Listen to me, Christine! I am your teacher, I am your master, and you will be silent! Look over the final threshold, the bridge that you have burned, and know that there is no going back now! You have passed the point of no return, Christine, and you cannot hide any longer! Become a woman, Christine, you cannot be a child any longer! Learn to face up to what you have done! See me and know you are killing the only chance you will ever have for love! I am _dying_, Christine! You think you want your Viscomte, you think you want sunshine and laughter and picnics by a lake. That is a child's dream, Christine! You are no child, you are a woman, a woman of flesh and blood who sings like and looks as an angel, and that is not what you want and not what you love! You love the seduction in the darkness and the music we make. You love the dark shadows winding about you and the scarlet flames of passion. You love _me_, Christine! You proved it when you stayed behind for _me_! I once thought that perhaps, perhaps all was lost and it was not me that you wanted, not me that you loved, but then you stood on the stage and we sang together and I _knew_! I knew, Christine! And you must know, too! _For God's sake, Christine, you must know_!" His voice was ragged with screaming and pain and pleading, his face was twisted beyond compare, and he loomed over her now, staring into her wide and frightened eyes, his voice penetrating her reeling mind, and every fiber of him begged her to understand even as every fiber of him prepared to throw her from him.

"See what you are, Christine! See what your voice betrayed to me when first I heard you sing! You are passion, Christine, and passion is part and parcel of the music of the night!"

He laughed again, a slow laugh that both mocked and pitied her.

"Did you think you would ever escape me unscathed, Christine? Did you think that you could hear my music and not see what you were meant for in this world? Did you think that you would walk from the darkness and never hear the music of the night again?"

He bent over her, and the gentleness of his kiss was yet another moment, the eye of the hurricane and the momentary lull. The caress of his voice when he whispered in her ear chilled Christine to the marrow of her bones, and she knew with utter certainty that Raoul had been right. He would haunt her until she was dead.

"You sold your soul to the darkness, Christine. Did you think that you would not have to pay the price?"

-

Father Clare walked down the aisle of the church, his prayers for the evening finished.

As he walked past the back pews, a glint in the dim light caught his eye, and he bent.

On the floor lay a leather-backed prayer book, fallen open and lying as though dropped in some great hurry. Next to the book lay a beautifully carved set of ebony rosary beads, a turquoise and silver crucifix hanging from them.

Surprised that the boys who cleaned nightly had missed it, he lifted the book and rosary from the floor.

He recalled the young lady that had looked so much like Christine. She had carried these beads. He picked up the prayer book, hoping it might contain some clue as to who she was.

He opened it to the first page.

A name was written there.

_Comtess Elise de Chagny_

-

The lull lasted only a minute.

Erik threw Christine roughly away from him. He stood and walked to the window, his fists clenched at his sides.

"Get out."

"What?" Christine cried, incapable of believing him.

"_Leave_!" he shouted, still facing away from her.

"But, Erik, please, listen to me, you don't understand…"

"_I understand_!" He whirled to face her, and Christine shrank away from him.

Pain flared into his eyes at the knowledge that she feared him. "I understand more than you know, Christine. I understand that you fear me now. I understand that I love you, Christine, so much that it is killing me. And I understand that if you do not leave now, I will kill _you_ for speaking that boy's name in my house!"

Christine flew from the bed, her heart in her throat. She pulled a chemise and a simple gown on, her fingers shaking as she did the buttons.

Erik turned to face her. "Christine."

She looked at him, and it was his turn to see, mirrored in her eyes, all the sadness of the world.

His voice was mocking as he held out his left hand to her, the hand on which was his wedding ring. "What God has joined together…"

A nameless fear rose within her. "Erik…"

_Let no man put asunder…_

His voice rose to a painful crescendo. "I now put asunder!" He tore the ring from his finger and threw it at her, whirling to face the window again.

Without a word, she bent, picked up the ring, andturned to leave the room. Erik's voice called after her.

"When you lie in his arms at night, it will always be my face that you see in the darkness. It will be my voice inside your dreams. The darkness will haunt you until you are dead, Christine. Pray that it is God's hand and not mine that strikes you down."

She opened the door, tears still streaking down her face. "I love you, Erik." she choked out, hating herself for crying, for showing such weakness.

Erik only laughed coldly in reply, and managed one final jab before she shut the door.

"Give my regards to the Viscomte."

-

Giselle did not sleep that night.

Her hand lay in the empty space beside her, as she stared blankly at the ceiling and reflected on her folly.

_"Christine!"_

She longed to hear the sound of his steady breathing in the darkness next to her, longed to feel his arm wrap around her and pull her close to him in sleep. She longed to feel his breath on her neck and to wake in the morning to his face, to press a kiss to his lips and whisper "Good morning."

She would never be granted any of those longings.

The space beside her was empty, he had lain there for a few moments, caught his breath, gave her a lingering kiss and left for the comforts of his own chambers and his own bed.

A tear slipped down her cheek. What a fool she had been to think that a few weeks of comfort and tenderness might have granted her more than her lot in life. What a fool to think that the Viscomte could love her.

She had tried, in the past few days, to show him that she loved him. A gentle touch on the arm, a light kiss on the cheek, a flush of the cheek when he walked past.

And then, she had tried to show him this night. Her body meant nothing, she knew. But she had let her heart fill her eyes, and tried to show him without saying those simple words that she loved him.

She had given him everything she possibly could—her body, her heart…

Tears slipped down her cheeks and she whispered brokenly to the darkness:

"Tonight, I gave you my soul."

-

Christine stumbled from the house, her cloak wrapped tightly around her shoulders, tears still streaming down her face.

Fog hung thickly over the Paris streets, the glow of the streetlamps muted by the heavy mist. Christine could hardly see as she made her way onto the street.

Where could she go? Her first thought was to Madame Giry, but the ballet mistress's voice rang out suddenly in her head.

"_Erik has found light for the first time in nearly forty years of a miserable existence. God help me, I will kill anyone who takes it from him."_

No, she could not go to Madame Giry. The ballet mistress, knowing Erik and knowing Christine, had known that this day would come. Madame Giry had betrayed Erik in an attempt to circumvent it, had done everything in her power to see that Raoul took Christine from the dangerous, obsessive love that Erik bore Christine. She had told Christine, and Christine had not listened. She had believed that she could harbor her childish dreams while abandoning herself to a woman's passions.

"_He loves you, Christine, and that will be either his salvation, or his damnation."_

Madame Giry loved Erik. Whether she loved him as a mother or as a woman, Christine was not sure. But Christine knew that tonight, she would not find refuge with Antoinette Giry. She would see Erik's damnation in Christine's tear-filled eyes.

The spires of the cathedral loomed in the distance, and Christine saw there her refuge. The house of God had been her sanctuary after her father's death. Why could she not find consolation there now?

-

Giselle rose from the bed, and walked to the washstand. Numbly, she washed her face of the tears that had streaked it, and turned to where a skirt and blouse lay on the chair next to it.

Without assistance, she dressed, and silently slipped from her room.

A servant answered her summons, and, for the first time, she used her small amount of influence as Raoul's mistress.

She pressed a gold coin into the servant's hand.

"I need a carriage. No one else is to know."

The servant nodded.

"Where to, my lady?"

"The cemetery."

-

The rain began to fall.

At the steps of the cathedral, Christine slipped and fell. She lay prostrate on the cobblestones, her fingers digging into the cracks between the rocks as she sobbed.

_In sleep he sang to me, in dreams he came…_

"Why?" she cried, looking up towards the threatening gray skies. "Why must you take from me everything that I ever loved? You took my father and sent me an angel, and now you take from me my angel! Where does it end? _When _does it end?"

She rose to her knees, the rain falling harder now, streaming down her face and mingling with her tears.

"Do you see me, father? Do you see your _angel_? Do you see how far I've fallen? You promised me the Angel of Music! You never said that I would fall in love with him! You never said that you were sending me an angel in a demon's guise, an angel trapped in Hell! You never told me that I would become possessed by his song, that I would have to save him, and in so doing would become trapped in Hell myself!"

_That voice which calls to me, and speaks my name…_

"Why, God? If there is any mercy in you at all, then tell me, God, why!"

She lifted her eyes to the tormented skies and screamed, "_Why_?_ WHY_?_"_

-

And, in the small room where she had slept every night since coming to work at the Opera Populaire, Madame Giry woke and sat bolt upright.

"Only a nightmare." she whispered.


	26. A Litany Of Suffering

**A/N:**

**I apologize for the length of time it has been taking me to get these chapters up, but life has been simply crazy lately.**

**I hope this chapter may also clear up a few misconceptions I was aware of about the nature of Madame Giry's dream.**

**Enjoy, and please review!**

**-**

**Chapter 28: A Litany Of Suffering**

Erik stood at the window, fists clenched at his sides, a trickle of blood running down his hand where he had torn the ring from his finger.

He watched Christine stumble out of the house and onto the mist-slicked streets. He watched her begin to run, watched her slip and nearly fall, and watched her disappear into the fog.

And when her slender form was gone from his sight, he tried to pretend that the sudden pain that washed throughout his entire being was the result of her betrayal.

He turned to the table next to the armchair and went to pour himself a glass of wine. He took a sip and grimaced. The drink, so rich and sweet and inviting only a few hours before, now tasted terribly weak and insipid.

Together with the familiar taste of the wine came the image of Christine, clad in a dressing gown only, her hair tumbling loose around her shoulders, her lips stained a bright scarlet…

With a sudden curse, he flung the goblet away from him. It struck the wall sharply and shattered, sending bits of crystal and a stream of crimson liquid to the floor.

His eyes fixed on the red liquid trickling down the wall.

A sudden hunger for blood reared within him, that familiar surge of barely controlled violence that had spurred his many crimes within the Opera. He had killed for her before…he could kill for her again.

"You fool!" he shouted, covering his face with his hands, his fingers digging into his skull. He ran them harshly through his hair, thick on one side, a mere smattering on the other.

Yet another reminder of what a monstrous visage he possessed.

It was no wonder that Christine still dreamed of her Viscomte.

He sank into the chair, mindful that tears had begun to trickle down his cheeks. Where had the rage gone, the numbing need for blood and death, even Christine's? Now there was only pain, an aching need to hold her and know that she loved him still, and a terrible emptiness in the room.

He rose suddenly and, without allowing himself another moment to think, pulled on his gloves and pulled his cloak from the wardrobe.

There was only one person who could help him now.

-

Christine rose from the cobblestones, her dress soaked through from the deluge of rain that was now turning to snow in the freezing air.

She walked up the steps of the cathedral and through the doors.

It was empty, and mostly dark, save for the candles burning around the altar.

She fell to her knees, and lifted her gaze to the crucifix above the altar, the dying Christ illuminated golden in the candlelit glow.

There was only one prayer on her lips, a litany of pleading.

_You know what it is to suffer. Look down on us, see his suffering and mine, and bring him back to me. Have mercy. Bring him back to me._

-

The carriage stopped at the gates of the cemetery, and Giselle stepped down, her cloak wrapped tightly around her to shield her from the cold.

The rain had lasted only moments, the chill of the air turning the droplets to sleet and then to snow.

The flakes fell in soft, haunting trails from the sky, lacing Giselle's hair and biting at the pale skin of her face and hands as she walked among the stone sculptures and ornate graves to a small, poor plot, without marking, save for a small stone that stood between the two graves and had only names and dates.

_Pierre and Jacqueline Auteur_

_1842-1868 _

She knelt in the snow, her eyes fixed on the cold, rough-hewn stone.

"I'm sorry." she whispered, her eyes beginning to sting with the familiar onslaught of tears, mindful that she had brought nothing with her to lay on the graves, so long bare.

She had not been the only child to be orphaned by poverty. Most other orphans that Giselle had known, regardless of their upbringing, had ceased to find comfort in God when they had found themselves left alone and homeless on the streets of Paris.

They had found their comfort in the memory of their parents, whom they believed with childlike faith were watching them at all times from the warmth and security of Heaven.

"Have you been watching me all this time?" Giselle whispered to the silent graves. "I hope not. I hope you cannot see what your daughter has become."

A tear slipped down her cheek. Her mother's face came to mind, that beautiful, sweet face, and Giselle winced. What would her mother say if she knew what her precious, beautiful daughter had become?

Giselle closed her eyes. "I had no choice, mother." The tears came more quickly. "God have mercy on me, I had no choice!"

_Except in the matter of the Viscomte._

And for that accusation of her conscience, Giselle had no reply.

None but tears.

And, having shed so many over the past two years, Giselle felt them to be a poor penance, even as she knelt in the snow, her arms wrapped tightly about her chest, the only sound in the cemetery the wracking sobs that shook her thin frame.

-

Raoul was not a heavy sleeper.

The rattle of carriage wheels took him from his slumber, and he rose from the bed. It was only a stride to the window, and he recognized Giselle's slender figure as she stepped into a waiting carriage.

It was headed in the direction of the cemetery.

A flash of déjà vu swept over him as he remembered another cold, snowy morning, another window, another woman in another carriage, headed for the same bleak cemetery.

He clenched his teeth. There was no Phantom to take this Christine from him. That cursed beast knew nothing of his liaison with this woman that he had turned into Christine, who, by every right, _should have been_ his.

No, the Phantom nested quietly with his ingénue, and one day, he would let slip the façade of humanity and prove again what a murderous demon he was.

And then, his precious Christine, Christine Daae, would return to him.

And yet, assured though he was that history would not repeat itself, Raoul left the warmth and comfort of his chambers, ordered his horse saddled, and in a matter of mere minutes, was headed in the direction of the cathedral and cemetery.

And, somewhere above the muffled hoofbeats of his stallion's swift gallop, he thought he could hear a deep and resonant voice echoing through the trees.

_Yet while I live, I will haunt you 'til you're dead…_

With a grim satisfaction that came of knowing that he had been right, Raoul smiled mirthlessly.

He knew the voice.

It had never ceased to echo within his dreams.

-

_The rain was hard and driving, the lightning bright and deadly when it cut through the evening sky. _

_And within the small house, Erik stood, blood trickling from his left hand, staring despondently out of the window, at the storm that seemed to have been unleashed from within him. It now raged without him._

_The spires of the cathedral twisted up into the furious heavens, and before the altar, beseeching the glowing figure of the suffering Christ, Christine knelt, tears streaming from her face, her lips moving in one silent prayer._

_The thunder rumbled, the sound as of a stallion galloping, and over it all was the resonant voice of the Phantom, deep and angry._

_The lightning abated, the rain turned to sleet and then to snow, and on the snow there was blood…_

_And Erik's voice, full of pain and regret, as she had heard it so many times before, screaming her name: "Antoinette! Antoinette!"_

Madame Giry sat bolt upright, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. "Only a nightmare," she whispered to herself, trying to calm her racing heart. "Only a nightmare."

And then, the harsh knock that had pulled her from her dream came again, and Erik's voice, full of pain and regret, as she had heard it so many times before, desperately called out her name.

"Antoinette!"

She scrambled from the bed, grabbing her dressing gown and knotting the sash hurriedly about her waist, hurried to the door. "I'm coming, Erik!" she called, pulling the door open.

His clothing was rumpled, as though pulled on in a great hurry, his eyes were red-rimmed, and his auburn hair was wild on both sides…

_His auburn hair_.

Antoinette blinked. He wore neither his wig nor his mask. A knot of foreboding and fear twisted in her stomach, and at the same time a dart of pain shot directly through her heart. He looked so forlorn, so vulnerable without the thick black wig and the leather mask that had always, always augmented his perfectly debonair appearance.

She longed to wrap her arms about him, to pull him close to her and let him weep on her shoulder.

Instead, she turned concerned eyes up to him and calmly asked: "Whatever is wrong?"

"I…Christine…gone…the boy…she…I…" He stammered needlessly, suddenly unable to tell the awful tale of what his rage had once again cost him, now, when he stood before the one person who could help him mend what was broken.

She said nothing, only watched him with eyes full of compassion, and a wracking sob escaped him, and then another.

Antoinette hesitated only a moment. She had no earthly idea what had transpired, but she could infer at least that Erik had lost Christine again, whether by Christine's folly or his own, and her heart crumbled within her for his pain. He had known only pain all his life, and she wondered at what cruel trick of Fate it was that would grant a man his only wish for happiness, only to snatch it from him once again.

She wanted nothing more than to comfort him, to close the distance that had always seemed to linger there whenever she saw him. The stiff formality that seemed to exist always between them held her back a moment, but then she considered the utter foolishness of the situation, she, standing there in her dressing gown, her hair loose about her shoulders instead of bound up, he, disheveled and weeping, without even the small comfort of his mask.

It was no trouble at all to draw him down to sit with her on the edge of the bed, and she wrapped her arms about him, holding him close to her. "Shh, shh," she whispered, stroking his hair comfortingly as Erik, overwhelmed by emotion, simply leaned his forehead against her shoulder and sobbed brokenly. "She will come back. She loves you, Erik. Whatever has happened, it can be mended. You have both done so before."

"No," he managed. "You don't understand, Antoinette! She won't come back! She will never come back, because she fears me!"

Antoinette closed her eyes a moment. "What has happened, Erik?" He made no reply, except to shake his head. "I cannot help you if you do not explain!" She let him go abruptly and gently lifted his head to face her. "Tell me what has happened."

And so he told her all that had transpired that night, beginning with Christine's fateful whisper of Raoul's name.

"I almost killed her, Antoinette. If I hadn't told her to leave when I did, I _would_ have killed her." He covered his face with his hands. "How can I ever look at her again, ever touch her again, ever claim to love her, when I would have taken her life and, for those few moments when the rage completely consumed me, would have taken pleasure in her screams and the feel of her blood on my hands? _How_?"

For several moments, she had no reply. What possible response could there be to such a ghastly confession? No priest on earth could give absolution for such a thing, and neither could she. Antoinette closed her eyes tightly and embraced Erik once again, her hands running soothingly over his hair. All the while, her mind spun madly as she struggled to find the words that could once more right their toppled world.

"Do you still feel that rage, Erik?" she asked calmly, masking the flood of emotion surging within her, mingled with fear for both Erik and Christine. "Do you still wish to kill her, or have her gone from your sight?"

Erik shook his head. "No! I would give all the world to have her safe in my arms again, but I am afraid that will never be. She will never believe that she is safe in my presence, and she will never believe that I have forgiven her or forgotten. And to be honest, Antoinette, I am not sure that I can forgive or forget."

"You have already begun to forgive her, Erik. Find her. Find her and let her explain, as much as she is able. Then you may decide whether the bridges burnt are entirely beyond repair."

-

Raoul felt a chill go down his spine as he approached the cathedral. Smoky fog hung heavy in the air, twisting up around the everlasting spires of the grand monolith, and the swirling flakes of snow that drifted down through the mist gave the cathedral an ethereal appearance.

He remembered how Giselle had returned from Mass that past Sunday morn, conscience heavy but her spirits lighter. She had even tried to refuse him her bed, but he would have none of it. Giselle had acquiesced, rather quickly if memory served him correctly.

_But her eyes had been even more blank and dead than usual, every trace of expression gone, like a ember ever closer to dying out entirely… _

Raoul pushed the image from his mind, leaving his horse standing at the steps and taking the cathedral steps two at a time, some unexplained urgency pressing at him.

He burst through the ornate doors, and looked into the yawning chasm stretched out before him.

Illuminated by candles, high above the altar, hung the golden effigy of the suffering Christ. With infinite compassion, transcending all agony, He looked down upon the woman who knelt before the altar, her quiet sobs barely audible, daring, tainted as she was, to beseech He who had no sin.

And then, she heard the heavy tread of a man's footfalls, and turned.

A seeming halo of light spread about her from the candles directly behind, and Raoul knew within the space of an instant that this woman was no fallen angel.

"_Christine_?"

-

It took Erik only minutes to arrive at the gates of the cemetery.

Christine would, undoubtedly, be at her father's grave. Where else would she seek solace, to whom else would she go to cry for the loss of her Angel, the spirit sent by her father, somehow manifested in a living man?

Shrouded in his cloak, he hurried across the snowy ground, headed for the monolithic grave of Charles Daae.

But when he reached the stone monument, Christine was not there.

He heard the sound of soft sobs, and turned down another path.

Not twenty yards from the grave of Christine's father, a brunette woman knelt before two absurdly simple graves.

"Christine!" he exclaimed, crossing the distance between them in a matter of moments.

The woman turned, and froze. "Who are you, monsieur?"

He stopped suddenly.

The woman met his eyes, and he knew instantly that she was not Christine.

Her features matched those of his angel almost perfectly, the long, curly mahogany locks were the same, the shape and stature of her body was a near perfect match.

But this was not Christine.

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her to her feet. "Are you Christine Daae?" he hissed suddenly, not understanding what was happening, but acutely aware that something was wrong.

She nodded, suddenly frightened. "I am! What do you want, monsieur?"

"You are not Christine!"

The façade impressed upon her by Raoul suddenly seemed terribly safe…and somehow…terribly precious.

"I am!"

-

And within the cathedral, perhaps only a hundred yards from the twin graves of Pierre and Jacqueline Auteur, Fate played her cruel hand once again, her pleasure in the ironies of life not yet sated.

The woman kneeling at the altar, framed in light, and never looking more like an angel than she did in that moment, looked at the man standing shadowed in the doorway, and her lips once more formed that fateful question:

"_Raoul_?"


	27. Sin By Love Absolved

**A/N:**

**Here's the next chapter. I'm not sure exactly how many more chapters there are left, but it will be drawing to a close sometime soon. Never fear, however, there's a lot of story left to tell!**

**Enjoy, and please review! I received many, very thorough reviews for my last chapter, and they were very encouraging. They are what helped me get this next chapter to you so quickly! Please continue to review!**

**-**

**Chapter 29: Sin By Love Absolved**

He heard his name fly from her lips like a whisper, and he dropped every pretense of propriety, becoming in that instant not a noble, but a man.

A man who looked upon the face of the woman he loved, a woman he never thought to see so close to him again.

He ran to her.

"Christine!" he exclaimed, calling her name again and again, the sound of it echoing against the domed ceiling of the grand cathedral, filling the room with his voice, and her name. She rose slowly from the floor and he pulled her into his arms, the wonder of it all consuming him as he pressed his lips to her forehead and held her close against him, reveling in the feel of her in his arms.

And then, she drew slowly away from him, and he knew that, no matter what sorrow had driven her to her knees before the altar of God, she was still not his.

But he lifted his eyes to the effigy above the altar, and he offered a silent prayer of thanks that he had been granted that one moment.

Perhaps it was enough.

-

Giselle looked up at the man who held her tightly by the wrist, saw him clearly for the first time, and an expression of shock traveled across her face and lingered in her eyes. God in Heaven, what had happened to the man? The shock overrode her fear for a moment, as she took in his face, half perfect, half so terribly twisted and deformed that it seemed hardly a face at all.

And then the perfect side seemed to twist as well, as his expression changed from hope to rage in a matter of moments.

"What are you staring at, girl?" he hissed, his grip on her wrist tightening until she was certain that the bones would splinter. "Does my face amuse you?"

"No, monsieur!" she cried, tears of pain leaking from her eyes. "Only please, let me go!"

-

_Erik, let me go, please!_

Christine's voice rang out inside his head, and his vision blurred as he saw her again, writhing with pain and fear beneath him as he exacted his rage upon her.

He had to find her. He had to have her forgiveness.

He pulled the brunette up against him until his face was only a hairsbreadth from hers. "Where is Christine Daae?"

"I am Christine!" she exclaimed, her voice pleading. She repeated it, her tone and manner begging him to believe her. "_I am Christine_!"

-

Raoul saw the bruises on her arms and wrists, and his face hardened. "What has that monster done to you!" he exclaimed, releasing Christine, and looking, horrified, over her bruised arms and tear-streaked face. "I'll kill him!"

"No, Raoul!" Christine grasped his arm tightly, as though fearing that he would race from the cathedral this very instant. "It was not his fault."

Raoul laughed mirthlessly. "As it was not his fault when he murdered Buquet. As it was not his fault when he tried to seduce you away from me in the cemetery. As it was not his fault when he nearly murdered Piangi, put hundreds of innocent Parisians at risk by dropping that chandelier and burning the opera house. As it was not his fault when he tied me to a grate, nearly garroted me and then had the audacity to ask for your love in return! And then, wonder of wonders, you gave it to him! It is not his fault! It _is his fault, Christine_! But as long as you breathe, you will find him blameless, though God only knows why! He is a demon, a beast and a murderer, Christine, and it has been his fault from the day he was born!"

Raoul's tirade was cut short by a stinging slap across the side of his face.

Christine looked up into his eyes, her face furious.

"All that he has ever done was for love of me. All that he has done, I hold myself accountable, and if God dares exact judgment upon Erik when we stand before His throne, I will go myself to Hell before I watch Erik burn for sins that would never had been committed but for me. I cannot judge him, I cannot blame him, and neither should you. It is not our place. If you must judge and blame, Raoul, then judge and blame me, for I take all his sins upon myself."

"You are delirious, Christine. The man has bewitched you. Madame Giry herself said he was a magician." Raoul drew Christine to him again. "Come with me, Christine. I promised you that night on the rooftop that I would love only you, and I hold to that promise. Did I not say that I would never lie to you? I love you, Christine, and I will do all that is in my power to make you happy. Leave that world of darkness behind, Christine, leave all the pain and sorrow and destruction, and be free. Take his sins upon you, Christine. I absolve you of them."

"Are you a priest now, Raoul, that you can forgive sin?"

"You said once that your love might absolve Erik of his sin. Now let my love absolve yours. Come with me, Christine. I'll take you away from Paris, away from those who wish you harm. I will show you the world, Christine! We can be happy."

"Perhaps. But is such happiness worth my soul?"

Raoul looked away, and Christine felt a wash of sorrow for the man who stood before her, a man that she had once loved, a man that she perhaps still did love. The temptation to give in to the promises he offered was strong, but she knew that to go with him was to abandon Erik forever.

Life without her Angel was no life at all.

"Christine, I love you." He looked down at her and laid his hand against her cheek, his eyes so full of pleading that Christine thought her heart would break for refusing him.

"I know, Raoul." Her voice was naught but a whisper. "I know. But I have made my choice, and there is no going back."

"Then you will not come with me?"

"I cannot, Raoul."

There was defeat in his face and voice when he removed his hand from her face and stood back. "Where will you go, then?"

"I will go to Madame Giry in the morning and see if I might stay with her until Erik finds me."

Raoul nodded, grateful for the dim light. He had no wish for Christine to see the tears in his eyes. He longed to lean down and kiss her, but he only embraced her instead, holding her close to him and knowing that he would give anything asked of him if only this moment might last forever.

-

Giselle became suddenly awash with fear when the deformed man's face suddenly hardened.

"You are not Christine." His voice was final, certain. "And you will tell me where Christine Daae is!"

She said nothing.

His jaw clenched, and suddenly he was hurrying towards the gates of the cemetery, dragging her behind him.

"Please, monsieur!" Giselle begged, terrified.

He turned on her, hate in his eyes. "You look like the kind of woman who attended church as a girl. I'm sure the priest must have told you many stories of demons and devils, no? Did he ever tell you that they lurked here on earth, in the guise of men?"

Giselle only stared at him.

He headed for where his horse stood, and mounted the creature gracefully. He reached down to pull Giselle up behind him.

"Please, monsieur, where are you taking me!"

His face twisted into a mirthless grin, and he yanked her up behind him onto the horse.

"To Hell."


	28. The Resurrection Of A Phantom

**A/N:**

**Well...the muses seem to have returned from their (extended) spring break. I took away their summer vacation on account of it. **

**I can't promise that the quick succession of chapters will continue for a terribly long time, but enjoy it while it lasts! The creative juices are flowing again.**

**Enjoy, and please review. Your reviews help me write more quickly.**

**-**

**Chapter 30: The Resurrection Of A Phantom**

**"**_To Hell."_

Giselle felt a cold shiver pass down her spine that had nothing to do with the freezing air, or the wind that whipped her loosening hair madly about and stung her eyes.

She clung tightly to the man in front of her despite her fear and revulsion—revulsion that was not a result of the pitiful state of his face, but the undeniable fact that he was, in fact, abducting her. She closed her eyes tightly against the rush of wind, afraid that at any moment she would topple from the tall black horse that was galloping in a mad rush over uncertain terrain in the gray light of early dawn.

With every stride they drew closed to their destination, this Hellish place that the strange man intended to take her, and Giselle's fear grew.

_God in Heaven, I'm going to die. I'm going to die. _

With that thought came another.

_I'll never see Raoul again. Oh, God, if you must take me, let me see him again. Let me tell him…_

"I love you."

The driving wind brought by the mad pace of the horse took her whisper and carried it far away from her abductor's ears, sparing her any questions on that account.

But the wind is a wayward thing, and Giselle had no hope of her pitiful whisper reaching the Viscomte, either.

-

Even as he embraced her for what he knew must be the last time, Raoul could not accept that he had lost.

He could not accept the reality of what must happen, that Christine and Erik would find each other again, and would forgive, Christine because it was in her nature, Erik because he could not live without her. He could not accept the thought of his love spending the rest of her life in the arms of a madman who only hours ago would have gladly killed her, could not accept the knowledge that she loved that same madman with a passion that Raoul knew he could never have extracted from her.

He felt that she loved him when she returned his embrace, but he knew that her love for him was gentle and sweet and unassuming, the love of a girl for a childhood sweetheart, the love of a woman for that first love that is never forgotten, and he knew that it would never be enough for her.

Only Erik was enough.

And Raoul hated him for it.

He let Christine go then, but even as she drew away, a small smile on her face, he knew that he would pursue her until the end of his days. If he died for it, he would never love another, and he would be sure that Erik could never be completely certain that one day the Viscomte might not snatch his hard-won love from him.

_Yet while I live, I will haunt you 'til you're dead…_

The smile on Christine's face sealed his fate. He would give all his earthly belongings, and his heart and soul and even his life, to see her smile like that for him again.

Erik might own her soul, her mind, her body, even her heart.

Raoul only wanted her smile.

-

When they went underground, Giselle's heart nearly stopped. She had been silent during all of the furiously paced ride, but the need to know something of what was going on was close to driving her mad.

She decided to play along.

"Is this Hell?" she asked, her arms now at her sides, as the horse was traveling at a leisurely pace.

The man leapt down from the horse and helped her move to the front, taking the reins and beginning their descent down a flight of stairs to a lakeshore.

"What is your name?"

Silence was all the answer she received.

They reached the shore and he pulled her unceremoniously, albeit gently from the back of the horse, but when he motioned for her to climb into the boat, Giselle balked.

"You abduct me from a cemetery, with no respect for hallowed ground, you force me to ride with you on a mad, dangerous jaunt through the woods, you drag me underground, and now you expect me to agreeably climb into a boat with you? I don't even know your name! And until you tell me who you are, and why you are taking me with you, then you may go to Hell alone, for I refuse to go another step."

His eyes darkened marginally, but he merely picked her up, dodged her angry hand, and laid her in the boat. He moved gracefully to the prow and shoved off before she could crawl out of the boat back onto shore.

And then he spoke, without turning to look at her.

"You must first cross the river to get to Hell. And as for my name…"

Giselle looked up at him. "Do devils have names, monsieur?"

He winced, remembering Christine's words as she asked him his name.

"_Or do the angels, be they of Heaven or of Hell, have names?_"

His jaw hardened and he stroked the oar through the water harder.

"You may call me the Phantom."

-

The early strains of dawn filtered through the stained glass windows of the cathedral, and Christine looked up at Raoul.

"I must be getting to the Opera," she murmured, looking absently at her hands. "Erik will, no doubt, look for me to be with Madame Giry."

Raoul resisted the urge to touch her again, turning his gaze away from her face to the window where the light had begun to shine through.

"I will take you there." He reached for her arm.

"I can walk alone, Raoul. You need not go with me."

Raoul looked at her and shook his head. "I will take you." he repeated, and Christine did not have the heart to refuse him.

-

Father Clare entered the sanctuary then, and stopped in surprise.

"Christine!" he exclaimed. "Viscomte! Whatever are you both doing here, and so early in the morning, too!"

"I…" Christine began, but Raoul cut her off.

"Mademoiselle Daae had come to visit the cemetery, Father. I am to escort her back to the Opera Populaire, now."

Father Clare's brow knit with confusion. "But surely, Viscomte, you had heard?"

Raoul frowned. "Heard what, Father?"

Christine bit her lip.

Father Clare's voice was full of joy when he answered. "She is no longer mademoiselle, nor Daae, Viscomte de Chagny! She has been wed! She is now Madame Couturier."

Raoul's face darkened. "Is that so, Christine?"

She nodded.

-

He snatched up her left hand suddenly, and his grip tightened when he saw the diamond engagement ring and wedding band. Her hand was clenched tightly around something, and when he uncurled her fingers, he saw a plain wedding band, the edges stained with blood.

"You _married_ him, Christine?"

"Yes, Raoul. I married him."

"And he threw you out." Raoul whispered, anger heavy in his voice. "The bastard threw you out."

Father Clare, completely unaware of the emotion between the Viscomte and Christine, chose that moment to draw the rosary and prayer book from his vestments.

"Viscomte, I found these on the floor after Mass. It seems they were in possession of a young brunette girl who looked very much like Madame Couturier, and she left them behind in quite a hurry."

Raoul shrugged. "What business is that of mine, Father?"

Father Clare frowned. "It is quite your business, I believe." He opened the book. "Or was the Comtess Elise de Chagny not your mother?"

-

Christine remembered the girl. She looked at Raoul, her eyes full of confusion. "Whatever was she doing with your mother's prayer book?"

"A pretty girl." Father Clare observed. "Her name was Giselle, I believe. I thought she was simply passing through the city."

Raoul snatched the prayer book and rosary from the priest's hands. "Pardon me, Father, but we must be going. _Christine_ is in need of my escort to the Opera house. I thank you for the return of my mother's belongings."

Christine allowed Raoul to hurry her from the cathedral before stopping him.

"What is going on, Raoul?" she asked, her expression not hurt, but frustrated and confused.

Raoul passed a hand over his eyes and led her to his horse. "I will explain everything, Christine. But later."

"When, Raoul?"

"Meet me for dinner tonight. I will explain everything."

"Raoul…I…"

"And you need not worry about the Angel of Music, little Lotte. Strict or not, I will have you back at a decent hour, and perhaps he will not even notice that you are gone."

-

The place where Erik took Giselle was not the mystical, candlelit, labyrinthial kingdom of music that he had borne Christine away to.

It was his home as it had been before Christine—dark, damp, and seething with emotions too strong for words, emotions that could be let out only through music.

He docked the boat and let Giselle scramble out after him as he stepped back into the darkness.

He walked up the steps to the dais where his organ still stood and lifted the white mask from the bench.

He turned to face Giselle, and in that instant, he was no longer Erik Couturier, Christine's husband and lover.

He was the man he had tried so hard to kill.

The Phantom of the Opera.

-

Giselle saw the strange man lift something from the bench, and when he turned, he was no longer the unkempt, tormented soul that had abducted her from the cemetery.

She saw a tall, elegant, debonair man, hair thick, black and slicked neatly away from his face.

_His face._

It was perfect on one side, the skin smooth and unmarred, devastatingly handsome.

And on the other side, the side that she knew was twisted, scarred and horribly deformed, a half-mask of white leather had been placed, obscuring the deformity and giving the man before her an air of mystery and allure.

And then, every piece of the puzzle fell into place.

Raoul's voice echoed inside her head, telling her a story as she sat on the unmade bed in Madame Lavage's brothel, listening to his mad proposition and even wilder tale of how he had lost his fiancée.

"_She was entranced by a voice, the voice of a man that she thought was an angel. You see, her father had promise to send her an Angel of Music when he died, and when that man began to tutor her, she thought he was that Angel. When he finally showed himself to her, she knew then that he was a man, but rather than hating him for his deception, she…she…"_

_"She what, mons…Raoul?"_

_"She fell in love with him…"_

_"An angel?"_

_"He was no angel. He had been terrorizing the Opera Populaire for over three years. They knew him as the Phantom of the Opera. His face was always obscured by a white half mask, leaving only the perfect half uncovered, giving the illusion that he was terribly handsome, but in fact, beneath the mask lay a demon's visage, a face so deformed, so distorted that it seemed hardly a face at all…"_

_"Yet she left you for him?"_

_"He made her choose between my life and his love…she chose him."_

_"So it was coerced?"_

_"Yes…in a way. But she loved him. I saw it in her eyes when she kissed him…"_

Giselle closed her eyes. Raoul had cried then, had let his composure break, and she had seen how much a man could love a woman. It had given her hope. It had lasted only a moment, and he had been terribly brusque and businesslike afterwards, to make up for it. But she had seen the tears, and felt them on her skin when she had embraced him, and that was, perhaps, the moment when she herself had fallen in love with him.

When he had inadvertently let her see what no one else, except perhaps the _real_ Christine, had.

The man in front of her cleared his throat, and the fear returned.

_"You may call me the Phantom…"_

This man was the Phantom of the Opera. He was Christine's Angel of Music. He was Raoul's enemy and rival.

He had murdered.

Giselle looked at his cold expression as he appraised her once more.

She was, no doubt, to be his next victim.


	29. No One Would Listen

**A/N:**

**For those of you who have not seen the additional scene on the DVD, "No One Would Listen" is a song not in the movie or on the soundtrack, only on the additional scene found in the special features of the DVD. The scene I've described here is perhaps a bit different than the additional scene, but I tried to keep it as close as I could.**

**The scene in this chapter where the Phantom sings "No One Would Listen" is intended to be the additional scene from the DVD. I do not own it, I've merely given it a place in my story.**

**For those of you who have not seen the additional scene or heard the song, the lyrics are to the tune of "Learn To Be Lonely". When the scene was removed from the movie, Lloyd Webber changed the lyrics and turned it into the song that Minnie Driver sings during the credits.**

**As much as I love that song, I would have preferred the scene.**

**Enjoy, and please review! As the story moves into the final chapters, I need encouragement more than ever! There are roughly five chapters left to go, if everything occurs according to plan and the muses don't move too much, but they _are not written yet!_ I need reviews, suggestions, encouragement!**

**Enjoy.**

**-**

**Chapter 31: No One Would Listen**

The Phantom took a step towards her, and Giselle flinched.

But he walked past her, and she shrank back into the shadows, her eyes fixed on him curiously.

He removed his coat and flung it aside, then ran his hand along the edge of his mask absently.

"Masquerade…paper faces on parade…"

At the sound of his voice, Giselle jumped. It was so very different from his speaking voice, which was rough, clipped and harsh. His singing voice was smooth and flowed over the notes like honey, like the softest touch of a lover. How Christine must have loved to hear him sing to her!

But he was singing to himself now.

"…hide your face so the world will never find you."

He turned and walked towards the lake, as though he had forgotten Giselle's presence entirely.

"They would never have found me here. No one knew, except Antoinette…and _her_. I would have lived all of my days here…"

He was speaking to himself now, lost in a world of his own making.

Giselle dared not speak or hardly even breathe, afraid to break his trance and be the object of his rage once more.

-

"I would have lived all of my days here…"

_Alone._

Erik knelt down next to the water, and looked across the lake, the mist rising off of it like smoke.

"And here I am again."

_Alone._

He laughed softly, mirthlessly.

"No one would listen. No one but her heard as the outcast hears."

He stood and walked towards the dais, darts of pain stinging his soul as he looked at the drawings of Christine, the small figures, the sheets of music that still lay just as he had left them.

He had taken nothing with him from this place.

He had tried to leave it all behind.

"Shamed into solitude…shunned by the multitude—I learned to listen, in the dark, my heart heard music…"

His fingers trailed over the sheets of music, marred by angry lines where he had grown frustrated with a particular measure or phrase…

"I longed to teach the world, rise up and reach the world—no one would listen, I alone could hear the music…"

He picked up one of the drawings of Christine, just her face, her long brunette curls spilling around her face and over her shoulders, a large red rose in full bloom in her hair…

"Then at last, a voice in the gloom seemed to cry: "I hear you, I hear your fears…your torment and your tears…"

Tears rose in his eyes and he laid the drawing down, his fingers lingering on the contour of Christine's cheek…the color of her lips…

"She saw my loneliness…shared in my emptiness. No one would listen—no one but her heard as the outcast hears."

A single tear fell on the drawing, and a small trail of black ink leaked from the corner of Christine's eye and slid down her cheek.

"No one would listen. No one but her heard as the outcast hears…"

-

Christine tried to ignore the stares of the workers as Raoul helped her dismount from his horse in front of the Opera Populaire. She knew she must look a fright, her dress and hair bedraggled from the fall and the rain, her face tear-streaked and her eyes red, her hand still clenched tightly around Erik's wedding band, and bruises darkening on her wrists and arms.

"Thank you, Raoul." She let go of his hand and smiled weakly up at him.

He dismounted the horse as well and took her arm. "I will escort you in. Then I will leave you with Madame Giry."

"Raoul…"

He shook his head and glanced up at the workers, dropping his voice to a sharp whisper. "Do you see the way those men are looking at you, Christine? They don't know who you are or why you are here. I will go with you until you are safely with Madame Giry, and then I will leave."

Christine only nodded.

-

Andre was standing in the foyer when Raoul and Christine walked in. His eyes widened considerably at the state of Christine's appearance.

"Madame Couturier!" he exclaimed, taking a step towards her. "Are you alright, my dear?"

Raoul nodded. "She will be fine. Is Madame Giry here?"

Andre opened his mouth to speak, but the sharp, lilting voice of the ballet mistress cut him off.

"Indeed I am."

-

The last notes of the Phantom's song had died away, but Giselle still stood, her hands tangled in her dress, her eyes closed. What beauty was hidden in this man! No wonder the young Christine, having never seen his face, had thought him an angel. His voice seemed to have been given him from Heaven. Giselle thought she had never heard a more beautiful sound.

But when she opened her eyes, he had turned to look at her again, and the spell was broken.

He had composed himself once more, and his face was expressionless, his eyes so cold that Giselle could not suppress a shudder.

This Phantom might have the voice of an angel, but he had the soul of a demon. Giselle dropped her eyes, unable to look at him any longer. He was more repulsive in her eyes with the mask than without, for at least with his deformity bared, he was human, vulnerable, equal with her and the others that he had terrorized and murdered.

With the mask he was cold, aloof, a fallen angel, a ghost who seemed just that—an invincible phantom who knew and obeyed no rules, nor was he subject to any.

He took another step towards her, and Giselle felt her fear begin to claw at the walls of her throat.

_Oh God, I can't die now. Not without seeing Raoul again, not without telling him…_

What was the use? Raoul, haughty aristocrat that he was, whatever his idiosyncrasies and charms, would no doubt spurn her love, calling it the bought devotion of a desperate whore. He would never love Giselle. His heart had been given over wholly to Christine.

As had this man's.

_You were born in darkness, you have lived in darkness, and you will die in darkness, at the hand of darkness._

The irony threatened to overwhelm her.

And yet, she had seen the humanity in his eyes when he had grasped her arm in the cemetery and demanded to know the whereabouts of Christine Daae. She had heard the tears in his voice and saw the ink of the drawing run only moments ago. That was his weakness. His murderous soul, his cold, bitter heart and his seemingly nonexistent conscience could be brought to bear only where Christine was concerned.

Perhaps her life had not come to an end yet.

She drew up every ounce of courage left in her, straightened her spine and dropped her hands to her sides, leveling an equally cold and determined gaze at the masked man advancing towards her.

"If you kill me, monsieur, you will never find your Christine."

It was a worthless trump card, a bluff that could easily be called, and as likely to enrage him as to calm him.

But at least for the moment, it stopped him.

-

There was not an ounce of compassion in Madame Giry's eyes when she looked at Raoul and Christine. Nor was there sympathy in her voice.

"Thank you for your assistance in bringing Madame Couturier safely to me, Viscomte." Her manner was polite, but the finality of her tone was clear. _I will see to Christine now,_ were the unspoken words. _You are not needed any longer_.

How true that was, Raoul thought. He bristled at the dismissal in the ballet mistress's voice, as though she had more stake in Christine's future, more concern for her well-being than he, her former fiancé!

_Former. That is the word that you must remember, Viscomte de Chagny, _his mind remonstrated. _You are of the past. _

"I will be seeing Christine to dinner tonight." Raoul informed Madame Giry, purposely leaving off her married title. The cursed Phantom had divorced her with his actions, if such a union of angel and demon could have ever been called a marriage at all. He would not address her with that creature's falsified identity.

Madame Giry lifted an eyebrow and looked at Christine. "Are you to accompany the Viscomte tonight, my dear?" The endearment held no warmth at all.

Christine lowered her eyes and nodded. "He says…" her voice broke. "He says there are things that he must explain to me, and I do wish the answers, Madame."

Madame Giry frowned, but replied only to Raoul. "Then she will see you tonight, monsieur."

And then she led Christine down a hallway and out of Raoul's sight.

-

"He came to me last night."

Christine looked up sharply from where she was sitting, on a small bed in one of the refurbished dormitories.

Madame Giry faced away from her, her emotions conflicting sharply between the boy that she felt she must protect, and the girl whom she had raised as a daughter, and had always considered as such. No mother would shun her daughter in the wake of a violence that had nearly cost her life, but surely Erik, who loved Christine so and had no other joy in his life, would not nearly destroy her without reason.

"He said that you had betrayed him."

Christine bit her lip. "It is a misunderstanding, Madame, a terrible slip of the imagination and the tongue that has cost us everything. His temper spun out of control, as it so often has before, and I fear that what has been torn apart by careless words cannot be rebuilt. I do not…" her voice cracked. "He does not even know where I am."

Madame Giry sat down beside Christine then, her controlled anger at the state that Erik had come to her in somewhat subdued. Perhaps there were two sides to this story, as well.

"Tell me what happened, Christine."

-

"Then you are not Christine?"

There was an edge of mockery in his voice that cut straight to Giselle's heart. She wanted to claim that identity, to have him call her by that name and affirm, as another lover of that woman, that she was Christine Daae. If this man said that she was Christine, there could be no doubt of it.

But it was not worth her life to be someone that she was not.

And so, her heart breaking, she relinquished that which had become so dear to her, the only part of her that Raoul would ever love, the false identity that had become her lifeline to the only love she had ever known, and she became Giselle again.

She laid it down, and feared that even if she walked from this labyrinth alive, that she could never take it up again.

"I am not Christine."

At the mocking smile that spread across the exposed half of his face, and curled gruesomely up into the edge of the mask, Giselle knew that she would live, at least for now. She amused him. It was a poor beginning, but it was a start.

"Then, pray tell, what is your name?"

"Giselle Auteur."

He bowed at the waist, his very manner exuding sarcasm. "A pleasure, Giselle. Now tell me, where may I find Christine?"

Her bluff had been called.

She had no choice but to tell him all of the tale, and pray that he might add an ending suitable to them both.

-

Raoul sat in his armchair by the fire, a scrap of stiff pink silk in his hands.

It was a mask, delicate, edged in white feathers and attached to a stiff white stem.

_Masquerade…every face a different shade…masquerade…_

"Tonight the masks come off, Christine, once and for all. I will shed mine, and you must shed yours."

_Look around, there's another mask behind you._

"And Giselle's will come off, too. I will relinquish the games, and make you mine, Christine. You cannot hide forever."

_Masquerade, seething shadows, breathing lies…masquerade…_

"Let him seethe. He has lied to you with his promises of love. His masquerade will never end."

_You can fool any friend who ever knew you…_

"You cannot fool me any longer, Christine. I know you are unhappy. But tonight, I will tell you everything, and then you will be happy."

He picked up the other mask that lay on the dresser, the mask he had worn on that fateful New Year.

"You will be happy with _me_."

And then, staring into the fire, he fed them both into the flames.


	30. All Of The Lies At Last Revealed

**Author's Note:**

**I appreciate the great deal of positive, encouraging, and helpful reviews that I have recieved over the course of this story. I must say, however, that if you must leave flames, as one reviewer has, that you offer constructive criticism and perhaps a way to make the story better rather than simply leaving negative comments.**

**steps down off of soapbox**

**A longer chapter this time, please enjoy!**

**And review, as always!**

**-**

**Chapter 32: All Of The Lies At Last Revealed**

When she stepped out of the doors of the Opera Populaire, Madame Giry only a few steps behind her, Raoul felt his heart begin to ache all over again. What if there was no recapturing what had been so cruelly lost? What if he poured all his heart out to Christine tonight, all his pain, all his deception and all of his madness, and still she turned from him with a kind word and a smile?

_What if she turned from him as she had once turned from the Phantom?_

The singularly unwelcome thought made him feel as though he had been punched squarely in the stomach. He saw in a moment's flash the pain on the Phantom's unmasked horror of a face as he played the only card that had ever given him victory—fear, because love and honesty had gained him nothing in all his sad life.

And now, as he watched Christine Daae walk to his carriage, attired in a lovely evening dress of midnight blue, her hair pinned up and studded with a few small diamond starbursts, he thought he knew, with more clarity than ever before, the misery and insanity of love that had driven his rival to such madness.

He would gladly kill to see Christine as his bride.

_You will never see him as I do, Raoul. That is your curse, and your gift, also._

Her soft words came back to him, and Raoul knew that still, he could see the Phantom as nothing but a monster who had stolen away his bride, the dragon who had overcome the knight.

But one thing Raoul could not deny, the beast had loved her enough to send her away when he could have had her forever. He had possessed the courage to give her into the hands of the man he hated above all else, simply to see joy in her eyes and a smile upon her lips.

Raoul knew he would never have such strength.

God help him, he would never willingly surrender her.

-

Madame Giry laid a hand on Christine's shoulder. "Are you certain of this, child? If Erik finds out…"

"He does not even know where I am, Madame Giry." Christine reminded her softly.

"He has ways and means. Do not forget what he once was. It is never wise to incur his wrath."

"I have already done so, Madame, and survived. If he did not kill me then, he will not do so now."

Madame Giry shuddered. Christine did not know by what tenuous thread her life hung. A moment more in that dreadful room and Erik would have killed her…he had said so himself…

Christine turned, and Madame Giry could see, even in the dim gaslight from the street, that there was the foreshadowing of tears in her brown eyes.

"You have been like a mother to me, Madame, more than any daughter could ever hope for. But I am a child no longer, and it is time that I ceased to behave as one. My fate, and Erik's too, and perhaps even Raoul's, remains in my hands, and I must take responsibility for what I have done, both in the past and now. I have been a child, Madame, I have thought that I could be Little Lotte, Raoul's sweetheart and my father's daughter, while being a woman and a bride also. I have thought that I could live in the past while making a life for the future, and I must now pay the price."

She smiled and touched Madame Giry's cheek, a fond gesture that the chorus girl would never have attempted. It was the gesture of a woman to another woman who is much loved, and Madame Giry recognized it. Tears filled both women's eyes at once, and Madame Giry patted her hand reassuringly.

"Go then, Christine. Make peace with your past and see if what has been done cannot be mended, after all."

Christine smiled then, and, tears trickling down her cheeks, embraced the older woman. "Thank you, Madame."

She turned to face the carriage.

-

The small starbursts in her hair caught Raoul's eye as she stepped into the carriage, the thin light of the street-lamps causing them to twinkle and glitter with an icy fire.

He remembered another night when lights flashed off of the diamonds in her hair, a night when he had sat in Box 5 and listened to her voice ascend almost to the heavens, when he had realized at once that the shy chorus girl that he had passed that afternoon was in fact Christine, Christine Daae, his childhood sweetheart, and a girl he had never been entirely able to forget.

_We never said our love was evergreen, or as unchanging as the seas…_

Yes, things changed.

She stepped into the carriage, and a tiny dart of pain pricked at his heart when she sat across from him, instead of next to him, as a lover, or perhaps even a dear friend, would. Clearly she meant to keep a distance from him tonight.

"_Bonsoir, _Christine."

"_Bonsoir_," she replied, and for one torturous moment, he thought that she would address him by his title.

"Raoul." she finished, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps not all was lost, after all.

-

_Now tell me, where may I find Christine?_

Giselle took a deep and shaky breath. Her bluff had been called, as she should have expected from a frantic statement so paper-thin.

She did not know where Christine was. She had never even seen her, save for that brief moment in the cathedral.

She bit her lip, and answered truthfully. "I do not know, monsieur."

His jaw tensed. "I am in no mood for games, mademoiselle, and I dislike riddles above all. I brought you here so that I might have a bit of peace in which to find out where Christine has gone, but if you prove to be a nuisance rather than a help..." He trailed off suggestively. "Nuisances are expendable, mademoiselle, and from the look of you, I doubt you will be missed."

How strange that something she had told herself so frequently over the past two years could prove so painful now.

"You are right, monsieur. I will not be missed. I am just a whore, monsieur, a bit of comfort to lonely men, and one night I was comfort to a man called Raoul de Chagny. I was comfort to him for many nights, and I began to wonder why, until he asked me my name, and when I refused to tell him, he said that he would call me Christine."

The man stiffened at that, and Giselle continued.

"I knew then that I reminded him of her—whomever she was. He told me that he could take me away from the brothel…and…" she broke off for a moment. "It was like being offered Heaven, monsieur! If you think this is hell, you should spend one night as a prostitute, and you will know what hell is!"

-

Erik shifted uncomfortably at the sudden emotion in her voice. He just wanted to find Christine, not listen to an impassioned tale from a woman who was, by her own admission, nothing but a whore that the foolish boy had seen Christine's likeness in.

And the last thing he wanted to hear was an assumption that he, of all people, did not know what hell on earth truly was.

"Did he take you away?"

She nodded. "Yes. He wanted me to impersonate Christine. Before he bought me from Madame Lavage, he told me Christine's story."

She looked squarely at him then, and Erik felt strangely bare, as though the mask covered nothing at all, and she saw him as clearly as Christine ever had.

"He told me about you."

-

Christine winced when she recognized the place that Raoul had taken them. He had taken her here many times before, and she had always felt rather out of place and uncomfortable.

At least, tonight, she was dressed for it.

Once they were seated, and their meals ordered, she wasted no time in coming directly to the point.

"Raoul, who was that young woman, and why did she have your mother's prayer book?"

He passed a hand over eyes that suddenly seemed very weary, and took Christine's small, pale hand in his other. She did not pull away, and he was grateful for it.

"When you left me, Christine, I was despondent. I did not understand how, after all of our declarations, knowing how much you loved me, knowing that you were betrothed to me, and knowing what horrid violence that monster had wreaked upon us both, I did not understand how you could go to him and say that you loved him!"

She looked away. "He has a name, Raoul."

"So does the Devil."

"His name is Erik."

"His name is not the point, Christine. Do you want to hear, or will you waste my time and yours in continuing to defend a man who will be forever defenseless in my eyes?"

She was silent.

"My brother and I had words one night over you, and he condemned our engagement and called you unsuitable and a whore. We nearly came to blows over it, but I left, and went into town. I visited a brothel," and here he could not miss how Christine flinched, "and there found a woman who looked enough like you to be her twin."

Christine's eyes were wide, and Raoul frowned suddenly.

"I did not say that the truth would be pleasant, or that it would be suitable for a lady's ears! But if you want the truth, I will tell you, and you will not shrink from it! I took a whore, Christine, as men do, and I saw your face on hers! Do you see what madness you have brought me to!" He kept his voice low, but the words were forceful, and Christine was shamed suddenly. She had not thought once of what pain she might have brought the man who had loved her so dearly, only of the happiness she had brought to the man who loved her so dangerously.

"I visited her for several nights, and one night, inquired as to her name. She would not tell me, but I found out from the madam of the brothel."

"Giselle." Christine whispered.

Raoul nodded. "I said that I would call her Christine. I offered to take her away from the brothel, and have her pose as you, as my mistress, since Philippe was so adamantly opposed to the idea of my marrying you. I brought her to my home, bought her a wardrobe of clothing suitable for the mistress of a Viscomte, and there the masquerade began."

Christine felt tears forming in her eyes. "The poor girl." she whispered. "Poor Giselle."

"Do you understand, Christine? I never once saw Giselle. Every word that she spoke, every moment that I looked at her, every night that I held her, she was you. I lost myself in a fantasy surpassing any I ever saw played out on the stage, and I found a small measure of peace, but at the core of that peace was madness."

Suddenly, Christine thought of the wax mannequin in the lair, and of Erik, dressing the silent effigy of his Christine in a wedding gown and veil, and seeing not a pale, cold doll, but instead a woman who loved him, who would come to him willingly and be his living bride.

Giselle was Raoul's mannequin, his plaything that he could dress in beautiful clothes and call Christine, so that he would never have to face the reality of what he had lost.

That he was facing it now spoke volumes.

"She left last night, to the cemetery. I followed her, it seemed so like that morning that you went to visit your father's grave. But I found you in the cathedral instead, and that was the end of the charade."

Christine knew what was coming, and her heart sank when he took her hand.

"If Giselle returns, I will end this. I cannot pretend any longer, Christine, I cannot have a whore in my house and in my bed and see you anymore! I have done you a disservice in this, Christine, and I ask your forgiveness."

"It is not my forgiveness that you should seek, Raoul, it is Giselle's. You have done me no disservice at all, but Giselle you have wronged greatly. She knows what she is, Raoul, and you have done nothing but remind her of it, day after day, night after night, every time that you have looked her in the eye and called her _Christine_, and not _Giselle_."

"How do you know, Christine? You have never met her."

"I have seen her once, in the cathedral. I saw the look in her eyes when she beseeched the Virgin, and I have seen that look in the eyes of only one other."

_And in his eyes, all the sadness of the world…_

"What did you see, Christine?"

"Suffering."

-

"You see, monsieur? I am not Christine, but at the same time, I am. I have spent countless nights in the home and in the arms of a man who loves her so much that he seeks a whore to paint her face upon, and I have been her. I have learned how she spoke and how she moved, I have learned of her sorrows and of her joys, I have answered to her name and heard him cry out for her instead of me, and you wonder why I am loathe to say that I am not Christine. Giselle is nothing but a whore, a forgotten bit of nothingness, expendable, as you said. But Christine…"

Erik saw the tremble in her lip and the pain in her eyes, and he felt a sudden twinge of conscience for what he had done to her, for the threats and the violence and the fear. She had thought that he was going to kill her.

He had threatened to kill her.

Perhaps he had been going to kill her, just to hear the screams and feel the blood on his hands, just to smell Death again and be powerful once more, not a shell of a man broken by obsession and love, but the Phantom of the Opera, feared and invincible.

He knew now that it was hopeless. Christine had killed that part of him with her kiss, had buried it with her touch, and had left the grave unmarked and forgotten with her love.

"What was different about Christine, Giselle?"

The fear lifted when he said her name.

The agony remained.

"Christine was loved…"

-

"You see Erik in her."

"I see the suffering of an outcast from society, made to suffer for something that is not her fault. I see a girl given false hope and a taste of heaven, only to have it snatched away."

_Suffering for that which is not their fault, false hope and a taste of heaven, snatched away. _

"Yes, I see Erik."

"Christine, do you think, if you had gone with me, that Erik would have ever let you be?"

Christine hesitated only a moment.

"Yes. Because you see, Raoul, he let me go. He loved me enough that when he saw what he thought was a terrible sacrifice, he realized that he _had_ to let me go. And he never expected me to return."

"Christine, I do not have that strength."

She looked questioningly at him across the table.

"Don't you see? He has let you go again, and this time, he has hurt you. What madness could possibly draw you back to his side?"

He caught both of her hands in his now, and there was love in his eyes, passion and pleading.

"Come back to me, Christine. Don't make me suffer so, loving only you, and never having you. _Anywhere you go_, I promised you. What happened to your promise, Christine?"

She looked down at her hand, at the ring finger where his ring had once been, and smiled sadly. "I gave it away, Raoul."

"Christine, I love you. Please, please come with me. We'll go away from Paris. He'll never find us. We can be happy, Christine, so happy. You will remember how you once loved me. Please, Christine, just say you'll go with me."

She laughed bitterly. "What hellish curse is upon me, that for love's sake I drive men to madness?" She looked at him, and there were tears filling her eyes and sliding down her cheeks. "Would you be happy, Raoul, with a woman who will forever belong to another man?"

She drew her hands away. "I did not go back to the Phantom, Raoul."

He frowned in confusion.

"That kiss broke the Phantom's chains and freed me forever. When I kissed him again, he was no longer the Phantom."

Raoul looked away.

"He was only Erik."

-

Giselle looked away, slumping to the ground in defeat. "You see, monsieur? I do not know where she is. I know who she is, I know everything about her, and I have been her, and now I do not know where she is. Christine is gone, monsieur. There is only Giselle here."

A tear began to form, and she bit the inside of her lip to keep from sobbing. The pain was welcome. "So you may kill me now, monsieur, now that you know the truth, and be done with it. There is nothing for me to live for, anyway. There has not been for some time."

She hated herself for the last statement, for the self-pity in it and for the horrid little sob that choked out at the end.

She was completely unprepared for the masked man to pick her up in his arms, as gently as though he were lifting a child, and begin to carry her away from the lakeshore and the dais.

She felt softness beneath her, like a cloud, and looked around, startled to see that she lay in a bed now, an opulent bed covered with red velvet.

He looked down at her, and there was compassion in his eyes now.

"You love him."

It was not a question.

She nodded wordlessly, and then the tears came.

He had never known what he should do with tears, not even Christine's, and so he merely walked from the room and let her cry.

He found the sound of her sobs unbearable, perhaps because in her lost eyes and broken soul he saw a reflection of himself, and so he took a seat at the organ and began to play.

But instead of the harsh, discordant melody that he expected, something soothing came from the aged instrument, and it was not long before the sound of the young prostitute's tears had died away.

-

They ate their meal in silence, and returned to the carriage without another word.

The streetlamps shone through the windows of the carriage, and made Christine's pale skin glow.

Raoul moved to sit beside her, and when she turned to look at him, her eyes slightly reddened with tears, he could not help himself.

He left her no room to refuse when he took her face in his hands and kissed her, kissed her as she had not let him kiss her since that night on the rooftop, using maidenly blushes and virginal excuses to ward off his amorous advances.

But she was maidenly and a virgin no longer, a woman entire, and he knew that if he did not kiss her he would die.

She did not yield to him at first, her lips as smooth and motionless as sculpted stone, but then he felt her tears against his skin, and he moved to kiss them away, and then she yielded.

She loved him still, had always loved him, and this was what Erik feared, that the gentle ardor that Raoul offered her might one day reclaim her, even over the fiery passions that had long since claimed her soul.

She gave into her heart's agony for a moment, and in her kiss was the sweetness of a young girl's love. The touch of his lips on hers took her back to brighter days, to a house by the sea and a warm fire at night, to dark stories of the North that made her shiver with delight and a touch of fear, to dreams in which the Angel of Music was just that, an angel, and not a man who confused and frightened one at the same time that he possessed one's soul completely, not a man broken and scarred, not a man desperately in love, and not a man that she had come to love in return, even beyond her love for her childhood sweetheart.

Her lips parted and he deepened the kiss eagerly, and she was no longer at the house by the sea, no longer a little girl, but she did not know where she was or who she was, only that for a moment, she felt safe.

He would keep her safe.

The carriage stopped, and Raoul lingered a moment, one hand on her waist and the other tangled in her hair, the palm warm against her face, and then he drew away.

The knowledge of what she had just done nearly took the breath from her body.

She scrambled from the carriage, and he exited after her, desperate not to let her go.

"Christine!"

She turned to face him, and she was crying.

_But if you can still remember, stop and think of me._

"I should not have let you kiss me, Raoul."

"Do you not love me, Christine?"

_Think of all the things we've shared and seen, don't think about the way things might have been…_

She took a step towards him, and placed a hand on his face, her fingers brushing against his skin.

_Think of me, think of me waking silent and resigned._

"I would not presume to lie to you, Raoul. You are far too dear to me for that."

"Please, Christine."

_Imagine me, trying too hard to put you from my mind._

He took her into his arms again, bent his head to kiss her, but she pulled away.

"You risk my life and yours with this foolishness, Raoul. You should have learned long ago that we cannot hide from him."

"Then you will go like the lamb to the slaughter for me again? Don't throw your life away, Christine!"

"No, Raoul. I will go to him because I love him, and because there is no one else in this world who will love him as I do."

"There is no one else in the world that I can love besides you, Christine."

"Perhaps you simply have not looked hard enough."

_Recall those days, remember all those times, think of the things we'll never do._

"Christine, I love you."

"I know. It changes nothing."

To have had the sweetness of kissing her again, and having her kiss him in return was nearly too much for Raoul to bear.

"Come home with me, Christine. Just for tonight."

"Would you have me betray him again?"

She turned then, and hurried away into the opera house before he could stop her, before he could say another word, before he could do anything that would make her stay.

_There will never be a day when I won't think of you._


	31. The Scars That Can't Be Healed

**Author's Note:**

**This chapter is a bit shorter than the last, and basically is setting a few things up.**

**To Bleeding Rose: Don't worry, there isn't going to be any kind of romantic connection between Erik and Giselle. He's compassionate towards her because he sees a lot of himself in the life she's had to deal with and the way people treat her, but he's not romantically interested in her. This is NOT an E/OW story. **

**Enjoy, and please review!**

**-**

**Chapter 33: The Scars That Can't Be Healed**

Christine had forgotten what it was like to cry herself to sleep.

She remembered in the morning when she awoke, her throat clogged with tears and her hair mussed, her eyes reddened and sore, her head aching. There were small half-moons where her nails had bitten into the palms of her hands, and though she could not remember any of what she had dreamt, she knew that they had been restless dreams, some of them nightmares.

She dressed in a simple gown, her hair left loose except for the flyaway bits, which were pinned back. She looked much as she had a year ago, when all this had begun, unless one looked into her eyes. There was no longer the idealistic, carefree look of a young girl in whose world all is well, but the careworn tiredness of a woman who has seen and felt far too much for her sixteen years.

She looked at the date and amended that.

Seventeen. In the agony of the past few days, she had missed her birthday entirely.

A knock sounded at the door, and Madame Giry entered, looking apologetic.

"Messieurs Andre and Firmin wish to see you in their office, Christine."

"Whatever about?"

"The new Season, Christine. They have not forgotten Erik's offer to let you continue at the Populaire, and with the refurbishing nearly finished, a new opera will begin casting soon. La Carlotta has not returned, which leaves you in the position of diva."

_My lifelong dream, and just when I am to achieve it, there is nothing I desire less_,she thought ironically. The last thing she wanted to do was perform again for an audience that would remember every bit of gossip that had circulated, sing again when her angel was gone.

Everything in her screamed that she should shake her head politely and send a message to the managers saying that they would need to advertise for a new diva.

"I'll be down in a moment, Madame."

-

Silence reigned in the lair when Giselle awoke.

She was loathe to move at first, so soft and inviting were the silk sheets and velvet comforter surrounding her.

When she did move, there was none of the discomfort of tight lacings and sharp stays that she had expected, and when she slid from beneath the sheets, she saw that she wore only the lightweight silk chemise that had been beneath her dress.

She was torn between surprise and gratitude that he had thought of her comfort, and shock at his audacity.

But then again, the chemise covered nearly as much as her dress did, and a good deal more than the gowns she had worn at the brothel had.

It was dreadfully cold in the lair, and gooseflesh immediately broke out on her arms and legs when she slid out of the bed.

Her foot brushed something soft, and she saw that he had left a thick robe near the bed.

Such thoughtfulness on the part of a man that Raoul had painted to be an unfeeling monster surprised her.

He was sitting at the organ when she stepped out of the small room, writing furiously on a piece of paper, and when he turned to look at her, she saw that he still wore the mask.

"You needn't wear that, you know. It must be dreadfully uncomfortable."

"If you saw me without it, you would not be thinking of my comfort any longer, mademoiselle."

"I already have."

His eyes widened in shock.

"You were not wearing it when you accosted me in the cemetery. I saw your face, all of it, and it was not your face that frightened me."

_This haunted face holds no horror for me now. It's in your soul that the true distortion lies._

He ripped it suddenly from his face. "You would prefer me like this, mademoiselle?"

She took all of it in for a moment, the perfection on one side, the twisted flesh, pulsing veins, lopsided nose and sunken eye on the other, and there was no tremble in her voice or change in her expression when she replied: "Yes."

He said nothing, only stared at her with an almost comical expression of astonishment.

She took the mask from his hand and flung it into a corner. "It is better to wear your scars on your face than on your soul, monsieur _Fantôme. _The world sees the scars on your face and may try to reject you for them, but they are there, and as long as you insist that you are human, too, they must eventually accept you, scars and all. But when you wear your scars on your soul, then the world sees you, and they do not know, and they do not understand why you are the way you are, and so they reject you for things that they do not understand. But in the end, it is not their fault, because they cannot see. The world cannot be blamed for what they cannot see."

"Well spoken, mademoiselle. But what of a man who bears scars on both his face and on his soul?"

She looked him in the eye and spoke softly. "He finds someone who can see past the scars upon his face while healing the scars upon his soul."

-

Christine was in no mood for a grand tour of the rebuilt opera house. That was, however, precisely what Andre and Firmin had in mind. They showed her the new dressing rooms and the refurbished dormitories, the gilded staircase and the new tile in the foyer, the polished mahogany floor of the ballroom and the grand balcony.

They took her down each of the aisles of the theater, pointed out how well the stonecutters had salvaged the statues, and proudly examined the enlarged wings and backstage.

There was a new chandelier, too, grand and glittering above the aisles of red-velvet seats.

Finally, they returned to the office, where, in the presence of Madame Giry, they discussed with Christine her contract.

"You will be the leading soprano, and as such, you will receive all of the privileges and salary accorded to La Carlotta. Of course, we expect that, with you, our nerves will be somewhat less strained."

Christine smiled faintly at that.

"We are aware, of course, that you are, at present, estranged from your husband. You are given the option of appearing on the programmes as Daae or Couturier, whichever is your preference. Madame Giry wishes you to stay in an apartment close to hers, and we have acquiesced. The Viscomte de Chagny is, at present, still the patron of the Populaire, and we trust that meets with your approval?"

Although a touch miffed that her managers should know so much about her private affairs, Christine knew that it was necessary if she was to stay within the walls of the opera house. She had no desire to live alone. She nodded her assent, and, when the papers were pushed towards her, signed in the appropriate places.

Tomorrow the new choice for an opera would be made, and a poster with her face and name would be displayed. _L'Epoche _would have an article and an advertisement, and her life at the opera would begin again.

And still Erik did not know where she was.

None of it meant anything without him.

-

"How can you truly understand?" he whispered, his hand automatically coming up to feel the ravaged skin on the right side of his face. "Your face is perfect, Giselle."

The formality was gone again, swept away by his shock at the aplomb with which she accepted his deformity, but she did not notice.

"I would to God that I possessed your face, monsieur! Beauty is as much a curse as ugliness, it seems to me, when it is bestowed upon those who have no use for it. I am beautiful, monsieur, I know it, and what has it earned me in this life? Nothing but a pittance for a living, earned in a filthy room being visited by a dozen filthy, nameless men every night. It is not hard to see past your scars, monsieur, if you look with the right eyes. There is no one to heal the scars upon my soul."

She looked away. "I would rather be whole inside and bear a hundred stares because of a marred face than be as I am—beautiful, but so twisted of soul that I fear sometimes there is no healing for me."

"But what do you do," he mused, his voice so faraway all of a sudden that it seemed he was not speaking to Giselle at all "what do you do when there are scars upon your face that the world will not accept, and you are afraid to make them accept, and there are scars upon your soul infected so that they poison all of you, and the only one who was ever able to look upon your face and at the same time heal your soul is gone because, for a moment, you let that poison overtake you, and it destroyed everything?"

He was on the verge of weeping now, and Giselle felt her heart constrict as he dropped his head into his hands. "I poisoned her, too, Giselle. I infect everything I touch, destroy everything that I love, and I blamed it on my face, on the horror that God saw fit to bestow upon me, but then _she_ came along, and she showed me that it was not my face at all, but my soul, that I had let my bitterness about the world's treatment of me poison what good was left. She was the only goodness I had, the only light, the only beauty, the only love, and I destroyed her, too!"

Giselle winced. "But she…she cannot be dead?"

He shook his head. "Not dead. But gone, and I do not know where, and even if I did, it would do me no good. She is afraid of me now, and I do not think she will ever return of her own free will. Perhaps she has found the boy by now, and gone away with him. He will make her happy. God knows I never could."

Giselle flinched, and he looked up, apology in his eyes. "I'm sorry. I had forgot that you loved him. Perhaps he will come for you."

"No," Giselle replied, and this time it was her turn to speak in a faraway voice. "No, I do not think so. He never saw Giselle, but Christine. If he has found Christine, he will think of me no more."

-

When Christine retired that night, it was to a different room, one adjoining Madame Giry's. She had not told the ballet mistress about Raoul's kiss, only that the night had gone well and she had received her answers.

From Raoul, perhaps.

For herself, the answers were as unclear as always.

She tried to put aside the darkness with thoughts of her new place at the Populaire, and of how happy Meg had been to hear that she was returning. Her childhood friend had been as bright and optimistic as always.

She had tried to question Christine on Erik, but Madame Giry had shushed her and sent her off to bed, and Christine was grateful for it. There was no way to explain violence, shouts and blood without painting him as a monster, and no matter what he had done, Christine could not see him as such.

All she saw was a broken man who still could not trust, and perhaps never could.

The pain of their separation after having been so close was almost too great to bear. She lay in bed that night, unable to sleep, missing his arms around her and his breath against her neck, his whispered words in her ear and the security in his embrace.

She had never thought that she would feel safe with him, but she had.

She feared that she might never feel safe again.

A wiser woman, she mused, would go with Raoul. A wiser woman would never have signed a contract that bound her to stay in Paris, where Erik no doubt still was, where he could be watching her from any of a hundred places, where her life might be in danger. A wiser woman would have listened to the urgings of her heart and gone away, as far away as she could get.

She wished her father were there to tell her what she should do.

She fell asleep to the promise of fitful dreams, and as she hovered in that no-man's-land between waking and sleeping, she thought she heard a soothing melody coming from somewhere in the opera house, as she used to hear when she had first come here.

But perhaps it was only her imagination.


	32. Try To Forgive

**Author's Note:**

**Just a few things to move the plot along a little, it will kick in big time in the next chapter. There are about four chapters left in this story if all goes as planned and there are no more little chapters thrown in. I also already have an idea for a sequel, if there is interest.**

**Enjoy, and please review! Encouragement is most needed now!**

**-**

**Chapter 34: Try To Forgive**

By the next afternoon, the choice of opera had been made—Giuseppe Verdi's newest work—_Aida_, and Christine knew already the part that she was to play.

She rolled her eyes behind the managers' backs when the choice was announced and whispered conspiratorially to Meg: "Leave it to Andre and Firmin to choose an opera in which all the girls will be as scantily clad as possible!"

This earned her a series of nearly uncontrollable giggles from Meg, silenced only by her mother's stern look and a firm tap of the ominous cane against the stage floor.

There were librettos to be handed out, and then measurements to be taken, and by the time they were able to break for lunch, Christine felt exhausted.

Meg, however, as energetic as always, insisted that they go out to get lunch.

"There's a new café that just opened, Christine, and it's not but a few steps from the opera house!"

"Meg, dear, I'm terribly tired…"

"Please, Christine! You're so pale, you don't get out enough. The fresh air will be good for you. I don't want to go alone."

"She's right, Christine."

Christine spun to see Madame Giry behind her, a half-smile on her face. "Go with Meg. An outing will do you good. You've done nothing but hide in the opera house since you came back from your dinner with the Viscomte."

Christine sighed. "Very well. Come along, Meg, while I change, and show me where this café is."

The two girls headed down the hallway, Meg dancing and twirling _en pointe_ in front of Christine, while the older girl walked slowly behind, her eyes casting nervously about.

-

A half-hour later, they were seated outside at a new sidewalk café, so new that the dust from the stone hadn't settled yet, as Meg put it.

It _was_ nice to be out, Christine had to concede. The bright sunshine helped to drive away the shadows that seemed to follow her wherever she went, and Meg's idle chatter kept her thoughts from wandering. The blonde's cheerful mood dispelled the darkness almost at once, and Christine even found herself laughing when Meg related some of the escapades of the ballet rats that Christine had missed in her absence.

"I'm so glad that you're back, Christine!" Meg enthused, squeezing her friend's hand. "I missed you so terribly—Lisette and Jammes can be _so_ horrid at times, and La Sorelli! She has been feeling ill of late, and I am not supposed to know this, but I heard _Maman_ talking to Monsieur Andre, and it is not the kind of illness that can be cured! Sorelli has been nothing but terrible to us rats lately, screaming at us if we are a step or two behind, and so demanding! _Maman_ said to Monsieur Andre that she will not be able to dance much longer, and the opera will no longer have a prima ballerina!"

"Perhaps, Meg, if you worked very hard, and impressed Messieurs Andre and Firmin in _Aida_, you might take that position? Madame is always praising your dancing above all, and I do not think it is just a mother's bias. Madame has never been one to show favorites, even when they are her own children."

Meg squeezed Christine's hand again, her eyes lighting up. "Oh, Christine, do you really think so?"

"Yes, I do."

"Oh!" Meg exclaimed, her voice rising in excited pitch until a few passersby began to glance oddly in her direction, and both Christine and Meg collapsed in giggles.

"Oh, Meg." Christine said when she was able to catch her breath, "I do believe you were right. This _has_ been good for me. I don't believe I've laughed this much since…well…since…"

Meg frowned. The shadows had returned suddenly to Christine's face, and the younger girl knew immediately that she was thinking of _him_.

"Good afternoon, ladies."

Meg looked up, and looked away just as quickly, her face suddenly tinted a bright pink.

Christine glanced up, and saw Raoul, his handsome face wreathed with a cheery smile, and his eyes fixed on her.

"Good afternoon, Raoul." She glanced curiously at Meg, who was staring intently at her hands, and still blushing madly.

"Would it be a terrible imposition if I was to join you?"

Christine opened her mouth to make some excuse, but Meg interrupted hurriedly.

"Not…not at all…I mean, we haven't even eaten yet…we really should be getting lunch, Christine…_Maman_ will be furious if we are late…and…" she trailed off, her ramblings silenced by an inquiring look from Christine.

"Well, then," Raoul began smoothly, "we shall have to be sure that you are not late." He motioned for a waiter. "And in the meantime, tell me, Christine, are you to be the new prima donna, or is Monsieur Firmin hallucinating once again?"

"He is correct." Christine said quietly, her manner instantly subdued. "I am to be Aida in the new production."

"No doubt all of Paris will turn out when they see your name on the programme."

"No doubt they would turn out anyway, no matter who was cast. Parisians have never been able to resist a scandal."

"Ah, but the more beautiful the scandal, the more eager they are."

Christine got up then, pushed her chair away roughly and walked away, her feet moving so quickly that she feared she might fall.

"Christine!" Raoul leapt up and followed her, instantly sorry for his words. She had stopped and was leaning against a street-lamp, one hand covering her face, and he knew that she was crying.

He walked up behind her, put a hand on her shoulder. She tensed when he touched her, and his heart constricted with pain. "Christine, I'm sorry."

"I didn't want this, Raoul."

"What?" He knew very well of what she spoke—her new place at the Opera, but he wanted to hear her confess something deeper, perhaps that she didn't want them to be separated, didn't want the awkwardness between them or the refusal in her eyes and body when he came near her.

"I don't want to be the lead soprano. I don't want to live in the opera house, or perform any longer. I don't want any of it, not if I can't have Erik!" She felt like a petulant child, one who beats the floor with her fists and feet and cries until she gets her way. She felt small and selfish, saying such things to a man who loved her, declaring her devotion to another in his hearing.

She was utterly astonished when he took her in his arms, brooking no argument, and stroked her hair until her sobs quieted.

"Do you remember when your father died, Christine?" It was a foolish question—of course she did, but he asked it nonetheless, and continued only when she nodded against his shoulder.

"You thought that your world would fall apart. We still wrote then, before Madame Giry came for you and left no forwarding address, and you said that you wanted to die. Nothing that had formerly held any pleasure for you held any at all then. It changed, did it not?"

She did not want to agree, but she could not lie. The truth was plain.

"This will change too. You loved music and the opera before Erik found you. You do not need him in order to love it again."

"There are memories in the opera house and on that stage that I can never escape, Raoul. I know that I should be grateful that I hold such a lucrative position, when many women in my state are reduced to cleaning women or whores. I know that I have been granted more than my lot in life, and that is why I accepted—because it would be foolish and imprudent to throw it away. But my soul dies a little more every time I walk onto the stage, because I no longer have anyone to sing for. I gave my soul away, Raoul, and there is nothing to inspire me. My voice is perfect still, training never dissolves, though it may grow rusty, but there is nothing to make it soar."

"I could inspire you, Christine, if only you would give me a chance. You think me a man of stiff manners and noble proprieties, but I can be passionate, too. I feel more than you know, and Erik is not the only man who desires you beyond all reason. There is more than gentleness in my blood, Christine."

"Why do I not see it, then?"

"Perhaps because there is no one to inspire it."

She could find no reply, and he nodded politely to her.

"Good day, Christine."

He walked to the table, said good day to Meg, who immediately blushed, and, with a brief glance back at Christine, went on his way.

"He's so terribly charming, Christine! And so handsome." Meg gushed when Christine returned to their table. "And he is kind! Don't you think so, Christine?"

"Yes, Meg." Christine replied quietly, her eyes and thoughts somewhere far away. "Yes, he is kind."

-

Giselle retired early that night, her third night in the labyrinth, and as she burrowed down into the softness of the velvet comforter and silk sheets, she thought how lovely it was to be able to sleep at night, and wake when one wished. It was something she had grown delightfully accustomed to in the de Chagny home, and she would miss it when she returned to her former—profession.

The very thought made her want to weep. Perhaps she could stay here forever, in this quiet darkness. Solitude could be so very pleasant when the company one was used to was so dreadful. This solitude was pleasant, broken only by the sound of the organ when the man—she could no longer think of him as the Phantom—played. And he played so beautifully, too. He had played a piece the previous night that had been dark, with a vein of passion running through it that made her think it must be from the infamous _Don Juan Triumphant_, a work that she had heard about for weeks after the disaster.

A disaster that really was not so far in the past, only a month, perhaps, or maybe two. The workers had done an excellent job of refurbishing the opera house, and had done it very quickly, too.

She began to drift off, when a sudden cry from the next room jolted her awake.

_"Christine!"_

The cry came again, and she was out of the bed in a moment, the robe hurriedly wrapped around her thin frame, and she dashed into the room where he slept, a room that she had not dared to enter before.

He was not awake, not yet, but he was having a nightmare. She could tell from the way he tossed and turned, sweat slipping down his brow, his unmasked face contorted on both sides.

She drew closer, lit a candle, and drew back in horror when she saw his bed.

_What sort of man slept in a coffin? _It was no wonder that he had nightmares.

She laid a comforting hand on his cheek, not even noticing that it was the right side of his face that her hand was drawn to.

"_Christine!_" He came awake with a start, jerking upright and seizing Giselle's wrist forcefully.

"Monsieur!" she exclaimed. "It is only me!"

He released her, and dropped his face into his hands. "They've come back. I knew they would come back…she's the only one who could ever drive them away…"

"Nightmares, monsieur?"

"Erik. My name is Erik."

It was completely out of place, this declaration, but no one had ever addressed him with such familiarity before, not when there was no fear to drive it.

"What are these nightmares, Erik?"

To hear his name on the lips of another human, to know that there was someone in the outside world besides Christine who thought him a man despite his face and his past, was akin to salvation for the distraught Erik.

"I see all the faces of the men I've killed, leering at me from the depths of Hell. They whisper things to me, terrible things that they will do to me when I join them. There's vengeance in their eyes, and terror in mine. They mock me for my fear, and then I see another face. It's the face of a woman, and when she turns, I see that it is Christine, and that I've sent her to Hell, too!" He was shaking now, trembling, tears running down his cheeks and dripping from his fingers as he buried his face in his hands. "They won't forgive me, Giselle! I've prayed for forgiveness so many nights, prayed until I wonder if there is anyone to hear me, or if it's all just another glorious lie, but they won't forgive me. No one has ever forgiven me, not even for things that are beyond my control, and the only person who could ever forgive me I've hurt beyond all forgiveness!" He ran a trembling hand over his face. "I cannot even forgive myself."

Giselle set the candlestick aside and reached out to embrace him, drawing his head down onto her shoulder and stroking his hair comfortingly as Madame Giry had. "I have nightmares, too, Erik. We have all done things that we think are beyond forgiveness."

"What do you know of torment, Giselle? What do you know of Hell?"

"I have visited Hell every night for two years, Erik. And in the day, I have gone countless times to the cathedral and knelt before the Virgin, begging forgiveness, longing to feel what others say they feel when they look up at Christ's holy Mother, but when I look up, I see only cold, sculpted stone staring at me, and it is then that I know that I am truly damned. Then I feel the flames reaching out to engulf me, and I know that for a bit of food and a bed to sleep in, for the sight of a sunrise and one more breath, I have sold my place in Heaven. I should have laid down in the gutter and died, and perhaps then I would have found a better rest above. But my courage was lacking, and as you cannot forgive yourself for the lives you have destroyed, I cannot forgive myself for my cowardice. You and I are much the same, Erik, both broken, both bitter at the world's treatment of us, and both unable to forgive ourselves for destroying our souls. But perhaps, if one day we could find the strength to forgive ourselves, then God would look down upon us with mercy, and grant us the eternal forgiveness we so desperately desire."

She laid her head on his shoulder and they cried together, two broken and fallen angels without hope of ascension, and when his tears were staunched, he drew away and looked at her.

She stood and took his hand. "Stay with me tonight, Erik. Perhaps together we can chase away the nightmares."

He looked dubiously up at her. "That is not at all proper, Giselle. Are you sure…"

She laughed, a strangely cheery sound in the dark melancholy of the catacombs. "I am a whore, Erik. It will be pleasant change to have a man in my bed who wishes nothing but to lay beside me so that he might have dreams instead of nightmares."

He laughed with her, and rising, left the coffin behind.

-

Madame Giry lay awake that night, a soft melody lingering in her ears.

He was below the opera again. She had feared that he would return there, and take up his guise of the Phantom again.

Perhaps in the morning there would be notes again, bearing that gruesome red death's-head seal.

"Leave us be, Erik." she whispered, turning over and closing her eyes. "Leave her be."


	33. The Dream Will End Where It Began

**Author's Note:**

**Alright. A few things I have noticed have become a bit cloudy for my readers. I forget sometimes, because the story is often so clear in my mind, that it may not be as clear to everyone.**

**I meant it when I said that there will be nothing of a romantic nature between Giselle and Erik. When she asked him to spend the night with her, they did not have sex or engage in any romantic behavior.To him, she is someone who has borne the same kinds of abuses as he has, and who understands him and sees him for who he is. They spent the night together to try and heal some of their scars, and to take comfort in their understanding of each other. There is _nothing_ of a romantic nature between them.**

**Also, someone made a comment about Madame Giry's statement at the end of the last chapter: "Leave us be, leave her be." That is explained more in this chapter.**

**Just wanted to clear a few things up. I'm sorry that I didn't make the relationship between Giselle and Erik clearer.**

**Enjoy, and please review! The great deal of reviews that I have gotten lately have been very encouraging!**

**-**

**Chapter 32: The Dream Will End Where It Began**

There was a rhythm in the opera house, a constant cadence of movement that Christine had sorely missed. When she stepped onto the stage the next morning and began to quietly sing her scales, warming up her voice as the dancers stretched behind her, she felt a sudden sense of peace, as though she had come home after a long sojourn in a foreign country.

It was the same sensation that she had felt while kissing Raoul in the carriage, and it frightened her. It frightened her more than Erik's rages ever had, more than her first view of his face, more than that not-so-distant night when Raoul's life had been mercilessly placed in her hands. It frightened her for a different reason.

If she could love one man so passionately, so completely, and yet in another's kiss feel that she was home, then she did not know any longer where her heart belonged.

And she no longer knew herself.

_Ah_, she thought, _if only Erik were here now. He would tell me—he has always known me, far better than I ever knew myself._

Her voice wobbled on a high note and Monsieur Reyer tapped his conductor's baton impatiently. "Mademoiselle Christine, you must pay attention! A woman so finely trained as yourself should not make such mistakes on her scales! Again, please, from the third sharp."

She put tormenting thoughts of both men from her mind and focused only on the notes, finding solace in that which would never leave her.

She put aside her mending of her broken soul and found her refuge in music.

-

Erik's arms were around her waist when Giselle awoke, his face buried in her shoulder. She wondered for a brief moment what Christine would think if she saw them, and stifled a laugh. She had shared a bed with both men that had loved and been loved by Christine. The ironies of her life seemed to have no end.

Raoul had needed to use her body in order to drown his memories of Christine. Erik had felt no such need. Another human's presence was all he needed, a feeling of companionship and understanding to chase away the guilt that brought on the nightmares, and who better than she—a whore from the slums of Paris who had committed enough sins without remorse to consign her forever to the deepest pits of Hell!

Erik had not needed to make love to her to know that she was someone he could trust, someone who could see past his scarred face and tormented soul to the man he could have been.

The man that he could perhaps still be, if only he would put aside the past.

But Giselle knew all too well that some things cannot ever be forgotten.

-

"Christine!"

Meg ran up to Christine _en pointe_, glancing apologetically at Monsieur Reyer. "Christine, have you seen _Maman?_ I went to her room before rehearsals, and she was not there! I thought she had come early to the stage, but she is not here, either!"

Christine frowned. "I haven't seen her, Meg. Perhaps she went down to the kitchens, or out to purchase some forgetful rat some lamb's wool. She has done so before."

"Never has she been late for rehearsals, Christine! You don't think…" Meg's eyes rounded. "You don't think that Erik has taken her, do you? For ransom, perhaps, or as a hostage to try and win you back?"

Christine laughed. "You've been reading too many novels lately, Meg. Go finish warming up. I'm sure she'll be here soon. Erik would never do such a thing."

"He has before."

"Not to Madame. And besides, Meg, he has changed."

Meg lifted an eyebrow. "Has he really?"

Christine looked away. "Yes, Meg."

"Then tell me why he is beneath the opera house once again."

-

Giselle didn't realize that she had fallen asleep until she woke to the sound of voices. She looked beside her and saw that Erik was gone, and felt a strange sadness. She had never had the simple pleasure of waking up to find a man next to her, be he her lover or no. To wake up to see such a man as Erik beside her would be a pleasure indeed.

Christine was a fool if she did not take him back when she saw what abject apology was in his eyes. Giselle had seen practically all of Paris's men, and not one had the soul that Erik possessed. There were upstanding, law-abiding citizens who were far crueler than he. There had been men in her room that had never seen the harsher side of a jail cell, but who had no trouble abusing her until she could hardly stand the next morning, let alone work. Yet, a murderer had held her last night more gently than any man ever had.

_Except for Raoul_.

But if he had seen Giselle, and not Christine, would his arms have been as gentle or his kisses as passionate?

She thought not.

She rose then, eager to drive away the melancholy that the thought of Raoul had brought on.

But when she reached the door and looked out to the lakeshore, she saw Erik standing there, conversing with another woman, perhaps in her forties, Giselle guessed. Their raised voices reached her ears, and she no longer could term it a conversation.

"You've done her enough damage, Erik! Leave her be!"

"I love her, Antoinette! Everything I ever did was for love of her!"

"I'm certain it was love in your eyes that she saw when you held her fast to the bed and nearly killed her!" the woman that he called Antoinette spat back. "I'm sure that she was awed by the depth of your devotion and the sincerity of your affections! Spare me the theatrics, Erik. You've hidden behind them and your face for thirty-four years, and I will not see her be dragged down with you!"

"If I could only see her! She will forgive me when she sees how sorry I am! You must see how sorry I am!"

"I do see it, Erik. I have seen such sorrow in your eyes before, many times. I never doubt its sincerity, but I have seen you repeat your sins over and over again. Who is to say that the next time you doubt her loyalty, you will not kill her? I cannot sacrifice her life for your happiness, Erik. I am not Demeter, who willingly gave up her daughter to Hades. If you must dwell in the underworld, Erik, and leave your soul to rot in Hell, then you must give up Persephone, for I will not surrender Christine again to you any more than I would permit you to take Meg."

"But you would give her to the boy!"

"He would never harm her."

"He is the only reason _I_ have ever harmed her!"

"So now what will you do? Will you begin to terrorize us again, with no thought for the safety and happiness of others, only of your own suffering and your own relief? You are not the only man who has suffered, Erik!"

"No one has suffered as I have!" He roared this, his voice echoing in the labyrinth. "_Do not presume to think that you know anything of suffering_!"

Antoinette smiled, a small, sad smile. "I lost the man I loved before his time, and have lived all my life alone. You think I know nothing of suffering? Christine is my only child besides my Meg, and I will not let her blood be on my hands."

"I thought that I was your son also, Antoinette."

"I do not know what you are to me any longer, Erik. No mother would turn away from her son as I have turned away from you. Your scars are not your fault entirely, Erik, I made some of the deepest cuts when I brought you here and then abandoned you. Perhaps if I had not forgotten you and married Monsieur Jules, perhaps things would be different. Different for you, different for Christine, different perhaps even…" she paused uncertainly "different even for us. I had great dreams for you once, Erik. You had potential to be one of the greatest men this world has ever known. You let the lies about your face poison you, when all it would have taken was a bit of backbone to swallow their hatred and then spit it back in their face with your success."

"You say I am a coward?"

"You have never had any courage, Erik. Murder takes no courage. In fact, it is perhaps one of the greatest of cowardices. You have hidden in shadows and trickery all your life because you are afraid to face who you are."

"If you were anyone else, I would have killed you by now."

"That would bleed you to death, Erik. I am your only ally in this world, the only woman who sees you for who you are and is unafraid to voice it."

"Yet you betrayed me to that boy."

"For your happiness and Christine's. I wanted better for both of you than what has happened."

"So you tried to have me killed?"

"After what I have seen of your life, Erik, it seems death would be a mercy."

He grabbed her arm. "I've changed, Antoinette, since we spoke last. I cannot prove it to you, but I have. Let me see Christine, only once, and I will prove it to you both! Antoinette, if you have ever felt any compassion towards me at all, then do not abandon me again!"

"I asked you to spare me the theatrics, Erik. The truth is plain for me to see—you will never change. You are who you are, and both the world and I have made you that way. I have made that sin my daily confession, and it will be the one that perhaps bars my way into Heaven."

"Such a saint as you would never feel the slightest touch of flame, Antoinette."

She laughed. "I fear sometimes we all have made our niche in Hell, Erik, every one of us connected in this strange tale of _le Fantôme de la Opéra_. We have all done things that we find hard to forgive in ourselves, and there is no rest for any of us. There is a curse on us all, I fear, or perhaps this opera house."

"Then the fire purged it, Antoinette, for my curse is gone."

"You said that when I congratulated you at your wedding, Erik. Some scars do not heal, and some curses do not die."

"Is there no convincing you?"

"There is not. You have made me a cynic, Erik, in that I believe no longer in human nature, and least of all yours. Christine is too precious to me for such a fate as this."

"At least tell her that I am here!"

"No, Erik." Her voice was firm. "Leave her be. She is the new prima donna here, and nothing will cause the managers to fire her more quickly than for her to be connected further with you if you take up your former doings. Leave her be, leave us all be, and let her heal. She has her dream, she needs her angel no longer."

"I was more than an angel to her."

"Perhaps." Antoinette reached up and touched the right side of his face comfortingly. "But put aside what you were, and if you must be a ghost or an angel, go back to Heaven, and watch her from there."

"There is no Heaven if she is not there."

"Then go away, Erik, before you consign her to Hell with all the rest that you have touched!"

-

_Then tell me why he is beneath the opera house once again…_

"No." Christine whispered. "How do you know this, Meg?"

"I heard his music coming from the basements. He is here, Christine!"

_He's there, the Phantom of the Opera!_

Christine looked away, and saw Madame Giry hurrying towards the stage. Christine's brow creased with confusion. Madame Giry never hurried anywhere.

She made no apologies, but walked briskly to the ballet rats and banged her cane against the wooden floor. They all leapt to their feet, and scurried into place.

"Scene one, then, Monsieur Reyer?"

The conductor looked rather miffed at the ballet mistress's unexplained tardiness, but said nothing and merely cued the orchestra.

Before Meg danced away, Christine hissed: "You must be mistaken."

The blonde only shook her head.

_Could it be true?_

-

Rehearsals went well into the late afternoon, and Christine was nearly dead on her feet when she made her way back to her room, all appetite for supper gone after Meg's continual chatter about the music that she had heard.

He couldn't be back. He had destroyed that part of his life.

_Madame Giry always said that men never change._

Erik was no ordinary man.

She was startled by Raoul's voice behind her as she walked up the aisle.

"A fine rehearsal today."

"Raoul!" she exclaimed. "Whatever are you doing here?"

"I patronize the opera house, I think I may watch a rehearsal if it suits me."

"What of your brother? It is your family and not you who is the patron, Raoul."

"My brother patronizes only La Sorelli."

"Speaking of that…" Christine began.

Raoul rolled his eyes. "Must we, Christine? I know a woman's penchant for idle gossip, but speak of such things with Meg. I have no desire to talk of Philippe and the little bastard that he has sired on Sorelli. My brother has always been a thorn in my side, and now he will become even more so."

Christine tried to hide her shock at the flippant way that Raoul confirmed Meg's suspicions.

"Oh, don't look so scandalized, Christine. You and I ought to be able to talk plainly, at least, after all that has passed between us. I do grow so tired of society's love of euphemism and fancy ways of maintaining the façade of propriety while indulging their baser natures."

Christine paused suddenly.

"There is to be a masque at the Comte de Renault's estate next week, and I was wondering…Christine?"

She put her hand out to hush him.

There it was again. The faint strains of an organ deep below the Populaire.

She spun and headed for her old dressing room.

"Christine! Christine, where are you going?"

"He's here!"

Raoul didn't need to ask of whom she spoke. He snatched up his sword belt from where it lay next to where he had been seated and hurried after her.

"Raoul, no!"

"I won't let him harm you again, Christine."

She only ran faster, but he grabbed her wrist suddenly and yanked her forcefully into his arms. "Listen to me, Christine. If you must see this man who so dreadfully wronged you, if you must speak to him, I will not, I cannot let you go beneath the opera house, into his lair, alone! Do you not see that I love you?"

She was silent.

"I would die for you, Christine."

"If you go with me, you well may."

He brought his mouth down on hers suddenly, crushing her lips to his own, his hands winding through her hair as passionately as he had ever dreamed. She resisted him for a moment, but he had waited all his life to kiss her like this, and there was no escaping him. His tongue parted her lips, sought the warmth of her mouth, and he held her there for a long moment before releasing her, his breath short.

"Now, Christine, at least I can die a happy man."

She said nothing, only turned and made her way to the dressing room.

It was a matter of minutes before they reached the lake, and climbed into the gondola. The strains of music were louder now.

_This was where the dream began._

A sudden sense of foreboding filled her, the acrid scent of fear filling her senses like the heavy scent of blood.

_Here is where the dream will end._


	34. Either Way You Choose, You Cannot Win

**Author's Note: **

**Apologies for the length of time this has taken to post. I know I keep re-estimating the number of chapters left, but I can tell you now, with 99.9 percent surety, that there are only three chapters and an epilogue left. **

**And now, please read, enjoy, and as always, review!**

**

* * *

**

_To fight for the right without question or pause, to be willing to march into hell for a heavenly cause._

_--**Don Quixote, The Man of La Mancha**_

* * *

****

**Chapter 36: Either Way You Choose, You Cannot Win**

Christine had never tried to navigate the canals beneath the opera house before.

It seemed so long since she had come here, so long since she had traveled in the gondola to the once-forbidden lair of the Phantom of the Opera.

What had once seemed so glorious and mystifying in her naiveté now seemed dank and terrifying. When Erik had brought her here first, she had not smelled the mildew or seen the slime and mold growing on the slick walls. She had not heard the squeaks of rats on the stairs or noticed how the light from the lantern cast frightening shapes on the dark water as the boat moved with an agonizing slowness. And through all of what seemed to Christine a never-ending journey, she could hear the Phantom's voice inside her mind, echoing off of the walls, the chords of his music throbbing ceaselessly through the air, possessing her, chaining her, imprisoning her.

Not Erik's voice. Not Erik's music. Not the deep, rich tones that had spoken loving words to her as he leant over her in the candlelight. Not the honeyed notes and soft chords that had wrapped themselves seductively around her and drawn her into a world beyond anything she had ever dreamed.

This was the Phantom's lair, no longer the grand kingdom that the innocent, child Christine had seen, not the illusion that Erik had spun, playing upon her fantasies to create for her the longings of her mind.

What she feared was that the man who had returned would no longer be the possessor of her soul, but once again the deceiver of her mind.

-

Erik heard the movement of the boat through the water before it reached the shore. He had sat at the organ for a good hour, perhaps two after Madame Giry had left, playing angrily at first—harsh, dissonant sounds that matched the ache in his soul, then lapsing into silence, his fingers brushing the keys languidly as he replayed over and over again the many errors of his life.

Giselle had floated aimlessly about the lair, not speaking to him, not offering comfort as she had in the past few days. He understood her silence, for how many words of wisdom could one seventeen-year-old girl possess? Perhaps she had heard his conversation with Madame Giry—doubtless she had, being only a few feet away in the bedroom he had built for Christine—and simply did not know what to say. At any rate, he was grateful for her silence, and perhaps she knew that he would be.

This seemed to be the end of it all. Madame Giry had Christine under her wing once more, and doubtless would go to all lengths to see that they were kept separate. She would push for Christine to accept any offer that Raoul might make, and soon Christine would be lost to him forever. Contesting their marriage, which was still, in fact, legally binding, would have no effect. His ring was gone, thrown at Christine with words that would leave her perfectly blameless should she seek an annulment. After all, what court would contest the wish of a future Viscomtess to annul her marriage to a ghost?

He no longer wished to have Christine against her will any longer.

_What God has joined together, I now put asunder!_

How carelessly he had thrown away his dreams! How foolishly he had shattered all his hopes! They were as distorted now as his face, as broken as his soul, as lost as his mind.

_Let the dream begin_.

This he knew—all dreams must one day come to an end.

-

Christine did not know what she would find when she reached the shore. Fear snaked its way around her heart and held tight, that familiar, childish fear that had caused so many of her life's errors.

She wanted to run, but she had come too far. To run now would mean a lifetime estrangement between her and Erik—if she turned her back and left now, when surely he knew that she was here, he would never come after her. She would have nothing left to do but go with Raoul.

The worst betrayal of all.

Another night came to mind, memories of the last time she had traveled the long path to the lair crowding in and causing the fear to rise up in her throat again.

They were at the shore now and Raoul leapt easily from the gondola, hauling it onto the shore and, ever the gentleman, offered Christine a hand out of the small craft.

She stood on the shore, weak-kneed and afraid, cursing the child that she was even now. Would she never grow up? Would no amount of calamity make her a woman at last?

Perhaps this was the first step. To swallow her pride and force down the fear and go to Erik. To beg his forgiveness for her thoughtlessness and childish whims, to pray that he would, in turn, be remorseful for his actions against her.

She took the first step towards the dais, and the next, and then she was running suddenly, up the steps towards the man who sat, silent, at the organ that had once spun such beautiful melody.

-

Erik heard the sound of soft footsteps on the shore, and he turned to see Christine, running towards him, up the stairs of the dais. Relief welled up inside of him and showed plainly in his eyes—until he saw Raoul behind her, only a few steps, one hand on his sword.

Erik's eyes hardened, his body stiffened, and his heart sank. Christine saw the sudden coldness in his gaze, and her steps slowed, her eyes filled with sorrow, and she looked away.

He heard Giselle emerge from the room behind him, saw Raoul's eyes go wide and heard Christine's soft gasp of shock. He spoke without thinking, without pausing to remember his anger or Christine's injustices, without giving himself even a moment to reconsider.

"Christine, forgive me."

Her face changed in an instant, from night to day in one beautiful moment, and then her arms were around his neck, her lips on his cheek, and for a glorious second in the expanse of time, she was his again.

Then he heard the soft whisper of steel sliding past leather, and he pulled back from Christine to see the fury in Raoul's eyes.

"I am sorry, Christine." Raoul's voice was deceptively soft, incongruously smooth. Christine turned, and her eyes went wide with horror.

"No, Raoul!"

"I cannot let you go back to him, Christine. You ask too much of me now, to walk away and leave you in the arms of a monster, a man who has nearly killed you, who no doubt will finish the job when next you do not fulfill his whims. You ask too much, loving you as I do. If you die, your blood would be on my hands as well as his, and I cannot live knowing that. Come with me, Christine. Come with me, or I will make the choice easy."

-

Giselle's heart leapt when she saw Raoul behind Christine, saw the man that she had never had the faintest hope of ever seeing again. She had thought that he and Christine would have fled Paris long ere this, had thought that he was lost to her forever.

Perhaps he still was. His eyes were fixed on Christine with a devotion that Giselle could never hope to inspire in him, and she felt acutely the knowledge of what she was and would always be.

His harsh words startled her, and she thought that perhaps he was truly mad after all, as mad as the Phantom had once been. He was desperate to have Christine, she knew this, and she feared Christine's answer.

The girl had braved many things to find Erik again, she did not doubt. Christine would not be so easily swayed.

_He is a fool._

Erik would kill Raoul if they came to blows.

Giselle clutched the side of the doorway, her nails digging into the crevasses in the stone until her knuckles turned white and her fingers bled.

_Don't fight him, Raoul. For God's sake, get out of this place. Don't fight him!_

-

Erik laughed, a chilling, mocking sound that echoed eerily in the labyrinth. "You think you could best me in a match of swords, _boy_?"

"I nearly did, once. It was Christine's grace alone that saved your wretched hide, though if I had possessed any sense at all, I would have done away with you then."

Erik bristled, and Christine grabbed his arm. "No, Erik!"

Raoul sneered. "Then come with me, Christine, and no harm will be done. But continue in this foolishness, this childish obsession with darkness, and I will have no choice but to liberate you myself."

"Have you forgotten that night so easily, Raoul?" Christine whispered, her eyes pleading. "Have you forgotten how you felt when Erik proposed something not so far from what you threaten now? Do you forget all the past so quickly?"

"I have forgotten nothing. It is because I have not forgotten his madness that I say these things now."

"You are the one who is mad, Raoul!"

_Ah, what hellish curse is upon me, that for love's sake I drive men to madness!_

Raoul took another step, and drew his sword fully, pointing it at Erik's chest. "What will it be, Christine? Will you go away with me? Or will the knight fight the dragon once again for the lovely lady's hand?"

-

Christine closed her eyes. There was no choice in her mind, no choice in her soul. Her heart wavered for one unsteady moment, remembered with shocking clarity how she had loved Raoul, remembered the picnics in the attic, the walks on the seashore, the stories that they had read. Her heart wavered, but her soul clamored far more loudly, and she knew what her answer would be, what her answer had always been.

"I loved you once, Raoul. Perhaps I still do. But my love for you can never be more than what it is—the love for a childhood memory that is forever precious to me. If I went with you tonight, I would find happiness in your joy. But your joy would be short-lived, for while I might be yours in the daytime, when we took walks in the gardens and had picnics by the lake, but every night I would return to Erik in my mind, in my dreams. Every night he would be the one beside me, holding me, kissing me, making love to me. It would never be you, Raoul, no matter how I might try. And you deserve far better than a woman who will always belong, mind, body and soul, to another man. You are a good man, a handsome man, and you may have anything you like in life. That is the lot you have been cast, and it is a good one. But my lot is far different from yours, and here is where we must part. If you love me, Raoul, as you say you do, then leave me be. Leave Erik be, and find joy in knowing that I am happy, loving him, whatever the consequences may be. I have chosen, and nothing can alter my decision. It was made since first I saw him through the mirror, and nothing on Earth can change it."

-

With a hiss of anger, Raoul leveled both his stare and his steel at Erik. "We shall see."

He lunged.

Erik sidestepped the blow easily, snatching up his sword from where it lay, propped up against the wall.

Christine screamed and darted away, Raoul's next blow barely missing her as she darted back to stand with Giselle in the doorway, her hand covering her mouth. "Oh God, please, no, please…" she whispered over and over again, her wide-eyed stare of horror matching Giselle's.

The two men battled fiercely, knocking over unlit candlesticks and chairs in their furor, destroying the velvet drapes that covered the mirrors and baring the glass to receive a sudden spray of blood as Erik sliced deeply into Raoul's shoulder.

Raoul growled, lunging again, his sword missing and diving into a stack of papers on a shelf, ruining several pages of composition and earning a howl of rage from Erik, who increased his attack threefold.

Erik had never been known to play by the rules, and he had no intention of doing so now. With a snarl, he tripped Raoul, shoving the man backwards into one of the mirrors. Splinters shot through the glass, cracking the mirror, a delicate spider's web of shattered glass.

Raoul gasped for breath, pulling himself upright with some difficulty. He lunged at Erik again, but the nimble Phantom dodged the blow as easily as he had all the others, his years of expertise with the sword paying off well.

Raoul swung low again, and cut into Erik's calf. Erik gritted his teeth, his jaw hardening as he lunged forward, parrying another of Raoul's blows and stabbing Raoul just below the shoulder, narrowly missing his heart.

Giselle screamed, her hands coming up to cover her mouth.

Erik stepped backwards, tapping the thin blade of his sword against Raoul's tauntingly. "Surely you can do better than this, boy! You are a _Viscomte_," he sneered, raising an eyebrow mockingly. "You've held a sword since you could walk. Surely you can beat an _old man_, a _ghost_?"

Raoul took the bait, regaining a moment of strength and surging forwards to attack again.

In the moment between his mocking and Raoul's lurch forwards, Erik knocked a flaming candlestick neatly from the shelf on which it rested. The fire gutted out instantly upon hitting the dirt, spilling hot wax across the ground and leaving a heavy pewter candlestick in Raoul's path.

Raoul's boot hit the patch of wax, hardening and slippery on the ground. He fell, his knee striking the candlestick sharply and causing him to cry out in pain.

"_No_!" Giselle screamed. In an instant she had pushed away from the door, and was running towards Raoul, her eyes streaming tears. "Don't kill him, Erik, please! _Don't kill him_!"

Erik paused a moment, his eyes flickering between the sobbing Giselle, only a few paces from the dueling men, and Raoul, kneeling in the dirt, gasping in pain, trying desperately to regain enough strength to strike at Erik one final time.

And then his gaze shifted to Christine, her eyes wide with horror as well. His heart constricted sharply, knowing that in only a moment, he would be responsible for the death of a man who had been her childhood sweetheart. He would once again cause her great pain.

And in that moment, when he stared at Christine and tried to find an answer, Raoul drew back, and when Christine's eyes turned to the kneeling man, she saw in an instant what his intent was.

She screamed.


	35. Now She Has Her Peace

**Author's Note:**

**This is something of a short chapter, but it is your answer to the cliffhanger. Two more and the epilogue, and I want to warn you that the final chapter and the epilogue will be posted at the same time. So...two more updates.**

**Never fear, I have many more ideas for fanfictions, so those of you who have me on your author alert list, I have a possible sequel to this story in mind, an official sequel to the 2004 movie (no alternate ending, carrying on as ALW had it, but still E/C), and a Braveheart fanfiction in mind. So do add me to your author alert list, if you haven't already. The great deal of reviews and feedbackI've recieved on this story have encouraged me greatly. **

**But I'll wait until the last chapter to get mushy.**

**Enjoy, and please review!**

* * *

_No greater love than this, thata man lay down his life for a friend._

_--John 15:13, KJV_

* * *

**Chapter 34: Now She Has Her Peace**

It was the curse of Christine's life, it seemed, that with all her actions she was to save one man and damn another.

Erik's head snapped sharply around at her scream. He saw the muscles in Raoul's shoulders tense, saw the fingers wrap themselves more tightly around the hilt of his bloodied sword, and Erik took a step backwards, his own arm drawing back to strike.

And then, suddenly, as Raoul lurched forwards to stab Erik, the deadly point of his sword aimed for the erstwhile Phantom's heart, Giselle was there, still screaming Raoul's name, begging Erik not to kill him, her mind seemingly unhinged in her fear.

Or perhaps, more lucid than ever.

It seemed, for Erik, Christine and Raoul, that time slowed nearly to a standstill in those few moments, when Fate played her final, diabolical card, and threw every predictable outcome to the wind.

Giselle threw herself between the two men, her eyes fixed on Erik, full of pleading.

But it was far too late for change and apologies.

Raoul and Erik both tried to deflect their blows, tried to avoid striking the girl who had so carelessly thrown herself in harm's way. Erik stepped back again, nearly unbalancing himself. His sword only grazed Giselle, cutting deeply into her arm and eliciting a cry of pain that seemed to go straight to his heart.

Raoul's sword struck her high in the back, even as he tried to halt the blow that would never touch the man it was intended for. It slid through her thin frame, and the scream of anguish that elicited from her lips would haunt him until his dying day.

His eyes went wide with horror, the breath coming from him in short, shallow gasps as the knowledge of what he had just done nearly unmanned him. He snatched the sword from her body and threw it violently aside. He slumped to the earth, choking on tears and bile as he turned away from the dying girl and vomited harshly into the dirt.

Erik rushed forwards, catching Giselle before she hit the ground, tears running freely from his eyes.

He wanted to rail curses at Raoul, wanted to strike him down and choke the life from his worthless body. Rage boiled up within him, hot and lusting for blood, but he ignored the writhings of his soul and looked down at Giselle, her fists clenched by her sides, tears of pain streaming down her face.

She opened her eyes, and Erik realized, to his horror, that she knew exactly what she had done. There was no shock, no terror in her eyes. What had seemed a rash and mad course of action had been a sacrifice, pure and simple. She had sacrificed her life to save Raoul.

Giselle smiled weakly. "You are not always right, you know." she whispered, as though to speak took far too much strength.

Erik raised an eyebrow.

"I did it to save both of you." She coughed harshly, a fine spray of blood staining her lips. "Raoul showed me that I could love, that my soul was not so jaded, my heart not so broken that I could not feel the same as anyone else. And you…" She coughed again, the blood leaving her quickly, cutting her time on Earth far shorter than it should ever have been. "You showed me that there was more to life than lies and deceit, more than suffering. You showed me that there was goodness still, and beauty, and love."

Her eyes grew glassy now, and suddenly they opened wide, a small smile curving her lips. "There is forgiveness, Erik!" she cried, the sudden joy on her face belying the pain in her body, wracked as it was with the spasms of death. "_Maman_!" she whispered, and Erik knew that she saw her mother, the name written on the small, poor gravestone in the cemetery.

He knew that Giselle had found Heaven.

She turned bright, nearly unseeing eyes to Erik. "She does not know!" she whispered joyfully, as the final strains of warmth seeped from her body. "She does not know!"

A flutter of the lashes, and the skin of her face and arms grew cold to Erik's touch. He ran a gentle hand over her face, closing her beautiful eyes forever.

He looked away, tears falling freely and unashamedly from his eyes. Christine pried herself from where she had stood, frozen, and rushed to Erik's side, knowing that there was no comforting him, but determining to try.

"Now she has her peace." he murmured softly, reaching out and drawing Christine to him, stifling his sobs in her hair. "She has her peace, and she has given me mine."

He saw Christine's quizzical stare, and he smiled ruefully through his tears. "I will tell you all, and soon, Christine. But not yet."

He stood to his feet, looking disdainfully at Raoul, who had gathered his wits at last and was standing shakily. "She loved you, you know."

Raoul turned away, the knowledge of this already heavy on his heart. "It is not my fault." he managed, tears clogging his speech. "She knew from the beginning why I took her. There were no illusions."

Erik took a step forwards, violence close to the surface. "It was all an illusion!" he roared, clenching his fists at his sides. "You took her from Hell, showed her affection and gentleness for the first time in her life, and you expected her not to love you for it!"

"She was only a whore!"

"_She was an angel!_" Erik screamed, fury lacing every word. "And now, she truly is!"

Christine grabbed Erik's arm. "Stop it! Will you make her death needless?" She looked at Raoul. "Go, Raoul. Get out of here, before you do more damage than you have already done."

The young Viscomte looked from Giselle's prone form, to Erik, to Christine, and a measure of calm passed over him.

It is hypothesized that, while great tragedy is often the cause of madness, great tragedy can also be the cure of madness. So it was with Raoul. The full shock of what he had done heavy upon him, he looked at Christine and nodded slowly.

"I will go. And I will never speak of this to either of you again. But know this, Christine. I love you, have always loved you, and it is you that I will love until the day I die. Every wrong that I have done, every sin that I have committed, it was all done for love of you. Let that be your cross, Christine. You say his sins are absolved through your love, but I ask you, what of mine?"

And with that, he turned and left, not speaking another word.

-

They took Giselle's body to Christine's room in the opera house, calling Madame Giry in and telling her quickly all that had transpired.

Erik left while Christine and Madame Giry began to tend to Giselle's body, stripping away the dirty gown and replacing it with a clean nightgown from Christine's wardrobe. They cleaned all the blood from her body, wincing at the terrible wound that Raoul had delivered.

"Raoul did this?"

Christine nodded.

"You must be kind to him, Christine, when you see him again. This is a terrible burden to carry, to be responsible for the death of a young woman such as this."

"It is, Madame. But for Giselle…"

Madame Giry paused and looked at Christine, her eyes curious.

"Death was a mercy for her."


	36. The Requiem For The Dead

**Author's Note:**

**Here is the second to last chapter. I will post the final chapter and the epilogue together, just so as not to break the flow. There will be a sequel! It will not be a traditional sequel, per se, but it will fill in the spaces between the final chapter and the epilogue. In other words, it will not be what follows the epilogue, but what follows the final chapter. **

**So, here is a nice long chapter for you, and I will have the final update as soon as possible.**

**Enjoy, and please review!**

* * *

_Spend all your time waiting  
For that second chance  
For the break that would make it okay  
There's always some reason  
To feel not good enough  
And it's hard at the end of the day  
I need some distraction  
Oh beautiful release  
Memories seep from my veins  
Let me be empty and weightless  
And maybe I'll find some peace tonight_

_In the arms of the angel  
Fly away from here  
From this dark cold hotel room  
And the endlessness that you fear  
You are pulled from the wreckage  
Of your silent reverie  
You're in the arms of the angel  
May you find some comfort here_

_You're in the arms of the angel  
May you find some comfort here_

_--**Angel, Sarah McLachlan**_

* * *

**Chapter 38: The Requiem For The Dead**

The night following the reconciliation was far different than Christine had imagined. She spent the night in the dormitories instead of with Erik, sharing Meg's bed, grateful for the comforting presence of the younger girl.

She tried not to think of the corpse that lay, silent and still, in her room. She lay awake for hours, the only sound in the room that of a dozen sleeping ballet rats, the only movement that of Meg rolling about in her sleep beside her. When she finally went to sleep, Giselle's horrific death played over and over again in her dreams, and she awoke with a start, bathed in sweat and sobbing. The sound of her tears woke Meg, and the young ballerina put her arms around her friend and let her cry.

She did not know where Erik was, but she knew he would come back to her the next day when they buried Giselle, and then perhaps all would be well again. But for tonight, she knew that he would need to be alone, to think and to grieve for a girl who, in the space of three days, had forged some bond, made some mark on Erik's soul that Christine did not understand.

But she did not doubt that Erik would tell her all when he was ready. He would need time, perhaps, but Christine could give him that.

They had a lifetime to mend all that had been broken.

-

Raoul stumbled into the de Chagny mansion that night, his face drawn and haggard, his eyes bloodshot.

He passed the drawing room, not even noticing the open door until his brother called out, with characteristic sarcasm, "I see the prodigal has returned once again. Did you bring your lovely Christine home with you once more?"

Raoul turned slowly, his sword slapping against his thigh as he stepped into the firelit room. His brother sat in the far armchair near the velvet-draped bay window that led out onto the balcony, one leg draped elegantly over the other, a crystalline glass of fine wine resting casually in his hand. The sight of him made Raoul feel sick, the pretentious and falsely genteel demeanor that composed the Comte de Chagny thickening the air like a rank stench.

This was a man held in high regard in Parisian society. This was a man whose company was sought after, a man with a dozen mothers hounding him at every party, every soiree as a potential match for their daughters. This was a man with nearly inextinguishable wealth, the finest surroundings, a handsome and distinguished man with the world at his feet.

And yet, he stifled the lives of those around him with his facades of propriety and his mouthings of righteousness while he kept a mistress within the _corps de ballet_, gave her expensive gifts and no doubt spouted sonnets of love and devotion while she was in his arms, giving all of herself willingly to him while he took, and took, and took. And now she was with child, and no doubt Philippe would cast her aside, deny all connection with the fallen prima ballerina and her bastard child, condemning her to a life of poverty, working as a cleaning woman or a whore, no doubt headed for an early death in one of the slums of Paris. With one careless action of a selfish noble, her dreams, her career, and her life had been broken. And while she suffered, an outcast, Philippe would sit in his armchair before the fire, surrounded by beauty and opulence, a fine suit on his body and a glass of expensive wine in his hand, and he would beckon, and the world would fall at his feet. Fate had given him this, and he squandered it all on himself.

Raoul had always prided himself that he was so much a better man than his brother. He had intended to make Christine his bride, not just his mistress, and to hell with the nobility and their ideas of the kind of woman a man of status should marry. He had intended to cherish her forever, to love their children, to give her back the joy that had been so cruelly snatched away from her with the death of her father. He loved Christine, and for that Philippe had looked down upon him, saying that no man should love a woman as Raoul loved Christine.

But he had not cared.

And then he had lost her, and suddenly he had become no better than his brother, taking a woman from the sort of life that Philippe had condemned Sorelli to, and he had not cared for her happiness, for her heart, had not cared for her at all as she gave herself to him while he took everything from her, drained her dry of all emotion, all thought and all feeling every night.

He remembered that last night with a start. Her body had become warm and supple beneath his suddenly, her eyes had changed, no longer blank and staring, no longer long-suffering, but instead alive, vibrant with passion, passion and…

Passion and love.

She had whispered to him. _"Say my name…" _she had whispered in his ear, and he, caught up in the madness he had indulged in and the fantasies that had taken hold, he had called out Christine's name into the night.

And the beautiful, vibrant, living, breathing woman in his bed had gone cold and still, and the life had drained out of her eyes with that one word.

_She loved you, you know._

Erik's words echoed in his mind, throbbing within his head as that cursed music had for so long, as the Phantom's voice had haunted his dreams, and Raoul knew that he was no better than his hypocrite of a brother. He had taken a woman without thought for her feelings, had molded her into the desires of his heart, and had forgotten that she was a person with a heart, a mind, a soul…a name.

And then, as if the game that he had forced her to play, the illusion that he had forced her to live, was not horrible enough, he had then killed her.

"No." he whispered, averting his eyes from Philippe. "Christine is gone."

"Oh?" Philippe responded, setting the glass on a mahogany table next to the chair and reclining a little more deeply in the velvet upholstery. "A shame, really. She was a pretty little thing, although she couldn't sing a note." He smiled at Raoul's shocked expression. "Oh yes, brother. I heard her singing in the gardens one day. A lovely little ditty, but terribly off-key. And that woman, whomever she was, had never danced a step in her life. I may be a man, but I am not a fool. I keep a ballerina as a mistress, and I visit the opera often enough to see how a ballerina walks and moves even when she is not in her shoes."

"You knew."

"_Oui_. I knew. But I let you pretend. It was rather amusing, you see, to watch you pretend that she was Christine. I rather enjoyed watching my self-righteous little brother parade around with a whore. You've spouted your drivel about the frivolity and hypocrisy of the nobility for so long, and pretended to be so different, that it was rather enjoyable watching you fall, Raoul. Do you see now, brother? We are not so different as you would like to think. You are no different from any of us." Philippe smiled, and it was not a friendly smile. "Welcome home."

He took another sip of his wine. "So, now that we understand each other, where is Christine now? And where is this girl?"

"Christine is with Erik."

"Erik?"

"The Phantom."

"And the whore?"

Raoul drew his sword suddenly and flung it down on the floor. The blood-spattered blade shone in the firelight, the dark, crusted blood like flawed rubies on the glowing silver.

"She is dead."

Philippe's eyes widened in shock. He dropped his wine glass suddenly, the liquid making a dark stain on the carpet as the glass shattered against the leg of the side table. "You killed her." he whispered, horror in his face and voice.

"It was an accident." Raoul laughed suddenly, a bitter, painful laugh. "Never fear, my brother, not a word of it will ever be breathed outside of the opera house. The only witnesses were Erik and Christine, and no one will ever know what happened besides them. Our family name will not be tarnished."

He looked down at the weapon. "You are wrong, Philippe. I am not like you, nor am I like any other noble. I would never have done to Christine what you have done to Sorelli. I would never have sent Giselle back to the life of a prostitute. But I am like a man that I hate more than any other man that I have ever known, even you, brother, my flesh and blood, you who have scorned me, dashed my dreams and my hopes and mocked me until you at last have had a hand in my madness. No, I hate this man more than I hate even you, and it is he that I am most like when all is tallied. I hate him because he has won what I love most, and because in his deformed face, twisted, scarred and ravaged until it turns the stomach to look upon it, in his visage, I see the reflection of my soul."

Raoul's eyes met his brother's. There was no emotion in his gaze, only knowledge, knowledge of what he was, what he had at last become.

"For so long, so many in this tale have questioned whether their sins were too many to be forgiven. They have all found their forgiveness, have found their happiness. Erik with Christine, Giselle in her Heaven. Others, too, have found what they have sought. And I wonder, brother, I wonder, how long must I suffer until I find my forgiveness? How long must I endure what I have looked upon blindly in others? What price must I pay before I find peace? I am mad, brother, and it is not the sort of madness that places one in an institution, not a madness that doctors can cure. But I am mad nonetheless."

He left Philippe sitting there, staring down at the shards of glass and the blood encrusted blade, and there was only silence in the room, the silence of darkness and flickering firelight.

-

In the labyrinth, there was no silence. There was sound, a cacophony of sound, all melded into a beautiful, dark, tragic melody that was Giselle's requiem mass.

Tomorrow, Father Clare would say prayers. Tomorrow, a requiem would be played. Tomorrow, candles would be lit for her soul. Tomorrow, her body would be placed in the cold earth.

But tonight, Erik sat at the organ and played furiously, his fingers hard on the keys, rubbing old calluses raw and raising new blisters on fingers and palms blistered so many times before by the passion with which he played his music, having poured out his soul through the aged instrument so many times.

He played a requiem for the dead, a requiem for Giselle, for the woman who, in the space of only three days, had done so much for the healing of his soul.

"_There is forgiveness, Erik!"_ she had cried when the glory of Heaven had been revealed to her dying eyes.

_There is forgiveness!_

She had seen Heaven, and had known that if there was forgiveness for her, there could be forgiveness for him as well.

She had given him back his hope, his faith, and finally, his life.

_It is better to wear your scars on your face than on your soul, monsieur Fantôme. _

She had given him courage, she had been strong when he was weak, she, who had nothing in life left to live for, had given him her strength and her courage that had brought her thus far, given him what he needed to win back Christine, the only part of his life that had ever been worth fighting for, and then given him back his life as she flew away to eternal peace. And in the last moments between life and death, she had seen Heaven, and let him know that there was forgiveness even for souls as surely damned as theirs.

-

In the morning, a borrowed carriage and borrowed horses drew the coffin containing Giselle's body to the cathedral where her funeral rites would be performed.

Christine recognized the coffin, but she said nothing. The crudely made, black wooden box containing Giselle's corpse was the same coffin that had held Erik's sleeping body for so many lonely, nightmare-filled nights. It had heard his screams and heard the longings of his tortured soul spoken and sung to the darkness, and now it would be laid to rest along with the woman who had finally found her peace.

Father Clare did not inquire as to the manner of her death. It was not uncommon for prostitutes to die young, even as young as seventeen, and if he saw the blood that had seeped out onto the white dress or recognized the wound on her arm as having been made by a sword, he said nothing.

The coffin was set down before the altar. There were no flowers, no trappings of a funeral. The only people present were Christine, Erik and Madame Giry. Meg had been told nothing save that a friend had died. The fewer people to whom the details were known, the better.

There was no vigil, so Father Clare prayed the Eternal Rest over Giselle at the beginning.

"Grant eternal rest unto her O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen."

The church bell tolled seventeen times, once for each year of Giselle's short life.

Christine placed her own wooden rosary in Giselle's hands, and then stepped back to stand next to Erik as Father Clare intoned the prayers. He sprinkled the body with holy water and incense, and then, as the two stagehands hired for this duty carried the body to the cemetery, they sang the Antiphon _Dans le Paradis._

"May the angels lead you into paradise, may the martyrs receive you at your coming, and lead you into the holy city, Jerusalem. May the choir of angels receive you, and with Lazarus, who once was poor, may you have everlasting rest."

A gravesite had been prepared earlier that morning, adjacent with the graves of Giselle's parents. Erik had purchased a small tombstone, and it was erected already before the grave. It was simple, with only a few lines.

_Giselle Auteur_

_1853-1871_

_There is forgiveness._

_Repos dans la paix._

Father Clare sprinkled the gravesite and the body with holy water and incense once again as he spoke another prayer.

"O God, by your mercy rest is given to the souls of the faithful, be pleased to bless this grave. Appoint your holy angels to guard it and set it free from all the chains of sin and the soul of her whose body is buried here, so that with all Thy saints she may rejoice in Thee forever. Through Christ our Lord, Amen."

He sprinkled her once more with the holy water, and made the sign of the Cross over Giselle's body as it was lowered into the grave.

"Eternal rest grant unto her, Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen. May her soul, and all the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God rest in peace. Amen."

The priest stood with Erik, Christine and Madame Giry as the grave was covered, and before he turned to leave, he drew Erik aside.

"I know that it was by no natural means that this girl died. I will say nothing, nor will I look further into the matter. Death was a mercy for her, I know this much, for I heard her confession three times at least. I do not know what she was to you, or how you knew her, but I see guilt in your eyes, and I will tell you this. Whether or not you had a hand in her death, feel no sorrow, for she is in Heaven. I heard her confessions, as I have said, and the girl is forgiven many times over. She is in a far better place than she ever was on this earth. The only tears that should be shed for her are tears of joy."

_There is forgiveness_.

Erik grabbed the priest's arm before he could leave. "Father, will you hear my confession?"

-

Christine sat in the cathedral, alone, while she waited for Erik to emerge from the confessional. She sat, her eyes fixed on the altar where she had knelt so many times for Communion, and she prayed. She prayed for Giselle, for Erik, for herself, but most of all she prayed for Raoul.

He deserved love. He deserved freedom such as Erik had found, freedom from guilt and madness.

She prayed that he would find that.

She did not even see Erik at first when he emerged, nor feel him sit down beside her.

"Giselle was right. There is forgiveness." He took her hand and she opened her eyes to see him smiling at her, smiling as he had not smiled in a long time—perhaps never before.

"I have received forgiveness from God, Christine. Now tell me, do you forgive me?"

"I do."

He put his arms around her and held her tightly, a few tears running down his face and onto her hair, but even those few tears could not staunch the joy in his heart.

"I love you, Christine."

"As do I love you, Erik."

She opened her hand, and he saw that in the palm was his ring, the golden band sparkling in the sunlight as it filtered down through the stained glass windows.

"Am I still your wife, Erik?"

He held out his left hand and as she slid the band onto his finger, he cupped her face with his right and looked into her eyes.

"For always, Christine."

They sat like that for several moments, not speaking, until finally Christine rose. "We should go, Erik. Madame will wonder what has become of us."

She started down the aisle, and Erik paused only a moment. He looked back at the altar, at the effigy of Christ hanging above it.

The sunlight slanted through the stained glass and illuminated the crucifix, causing it to glow so that it seemed almost alive for a moment, as though at any moment He would raise his eyes to look at Erik.

_There is forgiveness._

"Thank you," he whispered. "_Repos dans la paix,_ Giselle."

_Rest in peace._


	37. To The Gates Of Hell, I Will Follow You

**Author's Note:**

**Well, this is the final chapter, posted along with the epilogue. I just started school, so the beginning of the sequel may be a little while in coming, but I promise it won't be too long. Please put me on your author alert list and keep up with me, I will deliver you the sequel! It will be set in the time period between this chapter and the epilogue.**

**I want to take a moment to thank all my readers, those who reviewed and those who didn't, and express my appreciation for your support of this story. I have never before finished something of this magnitude, and it is largely due to the support I have recieved. Thank you all, and I am looking forward to writing the sequel, and other fanfictions after that. Please stay with me, your support and encouragement means more to me than I can express.**

**Please enjoy, and review! **

**-**

**Chapter 36: To The Gates Of Hell, I Will Follow You**

**Paris, 1872**

**One year and three months after the disaster at the Opera Populaire**

Christine had never been one to cry onstage. But one year later, as she looked out over the audience and took her bows, she could not help the few tears that ran down her cheeks as she heard the people of Paris applaud her for the last time.

She saw Erik, sitting in Box 5—he was the only one who dared rent that box, a matter that he and Christine laughed over often—debonair and dashing as always in a black suit, his white porcelain mask firmly affixed to one side of his face. He was still as reclusive as ever, preferring to sit in their modest home and compose music or draw sketches of buildings, or, more often, draw her.

But in the year since their reconciliation, he had not missed a single performance.

She would miss this—the applause, the shouts, the cheers, the flowers thrown onto the stage, the bouquets in her dressing room. She would miss the bustle backstage before and after performances, the congratulations and feeling of accomplishment that made the grueling hours of rehearsal worth it.

Perhaps she would perform again, wherever she and Erik finally settled. But it would never be the same. Here, she performed for the people that were as much a part of her as if she had been born Parisian, as if she had lived all her years in France.

She hardly remembered Sweden, so young had she been when she and her father had left to come to Paris.

Yes, this was her home. And as she stood on the stage and received Paris' applause for the last time, she felt the ache of leaving it more strongly than ever.

-

"He was here, Christine!"

Meg tugged on Christine's laces as the older girl prepared to attend a post-performance party, an event that often became rather tedious. But tonight, Christine was glad to be going. The knowledge that she was leaving had made the time spent with her friends and acquaintances within the opera house a great deal more precious.

Meg was already dressed, attired in a lovely blue gown that brought out the blonde of her hair, pale and shiny as cornsilk, and arranged into a style that made her look older than her sixteen years. She was the prima ballerina now, having acquired the position shortly after Sorelli left.

"Did you hear me, Christine?"

Christine nodded absently, Meg's observation further dampening any happiness she might have felt this evening.

Raoul, too, had not missed one performance in the year that had passed since they had parted for good. He had never spoken to her, not once, but their eyes had met many times, and after every performance, she had found a pink rose, tied with a white ribbon, lying on her dressing-table.

_I will love you forever. _

It was not strange to her that a man such as Raoul would know the meaning of pink and white in roses. Nor was it strange to her that he would leave a symbol so like the red rose, tied with a black ribbon, that Erik had left her so many times.

Each time she left it on her dresser until it died, then kept the petals. A drawer in the table was filled with the withered pink remains, leftover from a year's worth of performances. The ribbons she threw away.

Meg was hopelessly in love with the Viscomte, blushing to her hairline every time he passed her, and she was hardly able to form a coherent sentence if he ever spoke to her.

Christine knew that Madame Giry would whole-heartedly approve of such a match, but she doubted that Raoul would ever pursue the young ballerina. Romance within the Populaire held far too many painful memories for him.

Christine and Erik had not spoken of Raoul, or of Giselle, since that fateful afternoon in the labyrinth. The only reminder of the beautiful young prostitute was a detailed sketch that hung in Erik's drawing room. Christine was not jealous. There were portraits and sketches of Christine everywhere in the house, and she did not begrudge the dead girl this small memorial.

Erik had told her something of the three days that Giselle had spent in the lair, and Christine had come to understand what a mark the girl had left on his soul. She did not begrudge her that bond, either. In fact, she was grateful to Giselle for what she had done. She knew that the girl had had a hand in bringing Erik back to her. Many a time she had taken a moment after Mass to light a candle in memory of the young woman.

The living reminder was Raoul.

Her heart broke each time she saw the pain in Raoul's eyes, the longing and love in his gaze, the adoring way he looked at her when he stood up and applauded her loudly at each performance, as though she were a queen, a goddess…an angel.

Christine wondered if she would ever see him carefree and boyish again.

She looked at Meg as the younger girl drew a gown out of the wardrobe and began another stream of chattering in regards to how beautiful Christine would look, and she hoped that perhaps, after she had left, Raoul would notice Meg, or perhaps some other young girl, and find happiness with someone else.

_Anywhere you go_.

"I broke our promise first, Raoul. There is no wrong in going on with your life." she whispered, so softly that even Meg did not hear it.

The engagement ring that Raoul had given her lay, ever sparkling and vibrant, in a drawer in her dressing table. It had been there for over a year, resting quietly among the dried rose petals.

"Go on, Meg." she said when at last she was finished dressing. "I'll be along shortly."

She drew a piece of stationery and a fine-tipped pen from another drawer, and began to write.

_Dear Raoul,_

_By the time you read this, I will have already set sail for wherever it is that I am going. I do not know, really, except that it is somewhere in Europe—Erik has made all the plans. I suppose we may go to England, and he says that I must see Italy. I would like to visit Sweden again as well. I do not remember anything except France, for the most part, but I do remember the house by the sea, and I would like to visit it again. _

_Where we will finally settle, I do not know. Perhaps someplace in Europe, or perhaps we will go to America. Opera is becoming popular there, and no doubt there will be a way for Erik to support us with his compositions. _

_Wherever we go, I have made Erik promise me this, that when I die, he will bury me in the cemetery where my father is buried. Perhaps then, you can visit my grave, and remember me as I was in happier times._

_Wherever life takes you, Raoul, if we do not speak again, know that the memories of what we shared will always be precious to me. You are in my thoughts and prayers daily, and I wish you only happiness. _

_Forgive me any pain I caused you. _

_When you think of me, as no doubt you will, think of your childhood sweetheart. Think of the picnics in the attic and the stories we read while Father played the violin. Think of the afternoon when my scarf flew into the sea and you rescued it. Think of only the happy times that we shared, dear friend, and I promise that I will think of them as well._

_Forever your loving friend,_

_Christine_

She slipped the letter into an envelope, sealed it, and put it into her handbag.

-

Erik was sitting in an armchair next to the fire when Christine entered their bedroom late that night.

"Did you enjoy yourself?"

She nodded tiredly, leaning over to give him a kiss before turning so that he could undo her laces. "Firmin and Andre are still trying desperately to convince me to stay for another season. They declare that the Populaire will go out of business if I am not there. I suggested that they rehire Carlotta, and Firmin nearly went into a fit of apoplexy."

"You have acquired my sense of humor, Christine." Erik remarked dryly.

She smiled wanly and he regarded her with some concern. "Are you certain about leaving, Christine?"

She turned to face him, her face serious. "You know that I would stay in Paris all my life if it was not for you, Erik. But I know that we both need this. There is too much here, too many memories, too many reminders of the lies and deceits that we put each other through. There are no new beginnings for us in Paris. We should not have stayed this year, but I felt so guilty leaving when I had only just signed the contract. Now my contract is finished, and I know that this is the right thing to do, Erik. I will miss it terribly—Paris has been my home for as long as I can remember, but anywhere will be home if you are there, my love."

"I don't deserve you, Christine." he murmured softly, a hand going to the uncovered right side of his face.

She pulled the hand away and clasped it tightly in hers. "No, Erik, it is I who do not deserve you. You deserve so much better than what you have been given so far, and that is why I say we should leave. Paris will forever see you as the Opera Ghost, the deformed madman who terrorized the citizens and destroyed the opera. You are a phantom to them, but elsewhere, you will only be an unfortunate man. And when they see what genius lies within you, they will accept you, and then when one day your operas are being performed at the Populaire, you may come back and laugh. It will be you, Erik Couturier, who has the last laugh in this life, not those who have scorned you all your life."

"If you are certain, my dear."

She gently turned his face so that he looked into her eyes. There was no hesitation in her answer.

"Erik, I would go with you anywhere. Be it to the very gates of Hell, I would follow you."

-

Raoul was not at the docks when they boarded the ship to Italy. Madame Giry and Meg were the only two who came to bid them farewell.

Meg hugged Christine tightly again and again, tears rising in her eyes as she said goodbye to her friend.

"I'll miss you so much, Christine!"

"I'll write you every week, Meg. And you must write me, too. You must tell me all the gossip, and all of the mischief that the ballet rats have been up to."

"I will!" Meg promised.

Christine turned to Madame Giry. She embraced the older woman warmly, tears spilling down her cheeks.

"Thank you for everything, Madame." She paused uncertainly and bit her lip. "I wish…"

Madame Giry nodded. There was no need for words, she understood perfectly. To leave Paris was to escape the pain, to build a new life where she was only Christine and he was only Erik.

"I'll write." Christine managed through her tears.

Madame Giry nodded, and turned her eyes to Erik. "Take care of her, Erik." she admonished.

He stepped forwards and embraced her. "Goodbye, Antoinette."

She took his face in her hands and looked into his eyes. "Do not forget."

And as he smiled, eyes suspiciously moist, she knew that he would not.

-

**Sweden, 1862**

**Six months later**

Erik and Christine stood on the cliff, the warm summer sun shining down on them, looking at the place where the old house had been.

"Are you sure this is the place?" Erik asked, looking at the bare patch of land that Christine was gazing at so fondly.

"I'm sure." She wiped away a tear. "It's gone, Erik."

He put his arm around her waist and drew her close. "I'm sorry, Christine."

She shook her head. "It's just as well."

They stood there a moment longer, the warm breeze ruffling her hair and wrapping the skirt of her thin dress about her ankles. She had come barefoot, had leapt off of her horse—she and Erik had rented two from a livery in the town for the ride out to the sea—and run through the long grass as carefree as a child, eliciting a smile and a laugh from Erik. He did both so often lately.

She closed her eyes, inhaling the scent of sun warmed grass and salty ocean air. "Isn't it beautiful, Erik?"

"It is," he agreed. "It is beautiful."

She thought she could hear the faint strains of a violin in the distance, and impulsively she reached out and grabbed Erik's hand. "Do you hear that?"

"Hear what, Christine?"

"The violin." She tilted her head back so that the sun shone on her face. "Look, father!" she shouted joyfully, her fingers curling tightly with Erik's. "See your Angel of Music!"

She turned to face Erik, and she entwined the fingers of both her hands in both of his. She smiled, and he thought she had never looked more beautiful than she did then, her long, curly hair loose and flying about in the breeze, her pale face glowing in the sun, wearing only the thin white cotton gown with the small embroidered flowers that she loved so much, her feet bare. She looked free at last, and Erik knew then that their decision to leave six months ago had been the right one.

It had freed them both.

She smiled up at him. "Thank you, father," she whispered softly, matching her gaze to Erik's. "Thank you for the Angel of Music." She leaned forwards and kissed him, her palm flat and warm against the right side of his face. "Thank you for Erik."

She tossed her hair back and looked out over the sea. "Where are we going to go next, Erik?"

He smiled. "Have you ever seen Greece?"

He knew that she hadn't.

She shook her head, eyes alight. "Let's go."

He kissed her again and turned to collect the horses from where they stood grazing.

Christine remained on the cliff for a moment longer, staring out across the ocean. She lay her hands across her stomach for a moment, still flat under the loose cotton dress, her waist still possessing all of its shapely curve.

"Where would you like to go, little one? The world is yours."

She reached up and slowly drew something from her bodice. With a quick flick of her wrist, it sailed over the edge of the cliff and into the breeze.

She turned and followed Erik down to the meadow. She smiled at him, her secret twinkling in her eyes as she spurred her horse into a gallop, laughing at the surprise on his face.

He shot after her, and her musical laugh combined with his deep chuckle, echoing across the meadow, as beautiful as any song.

And behind them, a red silk scarf drifted on the breeze, and then floated down to rest on the water, to go wherever the waves should choose.


	38. Epilogue: Absolution

_Wishing you were somehow here again  
Knowing we must say goodbye  
Try to forgive  
Teach me to live  
Give me the strength to try  
No more memories, no more silent tears  
No more gazing across the wasted years  
Help me say goodbye  
Help me say..._

_Goodbye_

* * *

**Epilogue: Absolution**

**Paris, 1920**

The snow had not begun to fall yet as Raoul de Chagny, assisted by a nurse, climbed from the automobile into his wheelchair. He held the music box to him as the woman wheeled him over the gravel paths into the snow-covered cemetery.

_A collector's piece, indeed—every detail exactly as she said. Will you still play when all the rest of us are dead?_

Christine's grave was cold and bare, standing next to her father's grand mausoleum, a tall granite tombstone with a marble base. It had been three months since he had visited, taken as he had been by a bout of illness. He did not doubt that his time was growing short.

There were no flowers on Christine's grave. The pink and white roses that Raoul had left three months ago were no doubt dead now, swept away, or filched whilst still alive by street urchins looking to make a few pennies selling the flowers.

_I will love you forever._

No doubt she had known all along the meaning of the pink roses, tied with white ribbons that he had left her so many times.

She had claimed to love him in return, but in the end, she had loved Erik more.

He tried to will away the bitterness that he had been fighting for so many years. Seventy-one was too old, he mused, to still feel the pain of the past so acutely. But the bitterness returned, time and time again, to tear at his heart and gnaw at his soul. He still loved Christine, as passionately now as he had in his youth, but it was too late.

She was dead, had lived a long, full life apart from him, and he had been left to spend nearly fifty years trying to live life without her. It had not been easy.

He knew the writing on the tombstone by heart, but he read it again.

_Christine de Chagny…_

No, not de Chagny. Couturier, Christine Couturier, and the date of her birth and death, and an inscription that struck a dart of pain directly to his heart each time he read it.

_Beloved wife and mother._

He did not like to think of the children that Christine had borne Erik. Three, to be exact, two daughters and a son. He had seen them at the funeral, but he had not been able to meet their eyes. Nor had he looked at or spoken to Erik.

Near Christine's grave was another tall granite tombstone. He read it, too, though he knew the inscriptions on it as well as those on Christine's. He had commissioned it himself.

_Viscomtess Marguerite de Chagny_

_1856-1892_

_She walked where angels could not tread._

No one understood the significance of the last line except for Raoul. It was a reflection upon his many flaws, he supposed, that he should mark his bitterness upon his late wife's tombstone.

He came to the cemetery to ask forgiveness, to seek peace that he now thought he would never truly have. He visited Christine's grave, Meg's, Giselle's, asking each of these women for forgiveness.

Christine he had loved beyond reason, causing tragedy and pain in the wake of what had begun as an innocent love. He had nearly ruined her life and shattered her dreams, and for that he asked forgiveness.

Meg he had married to spite his brother, because Madame Giry desired a good life for her daughter, and Meg had loved him too blindly to see that behind the tender kisses and the loving glances was constant restraint, had been too innocent to ever imagine that he had wished almost nightly that it was Christine's shapely form that he held rather than Meg's petite one, Christine's curly, mahogany tresses that he ran his fingers through instead of Meg's fine blond locks.

She had loved him, and she had deserved better. The life of a Viscomtess had never been for her, in that Philippe had been right, and it only made Raoul hate him all the more. But for nineteen years of marriage she had lived with him, stood beside him, shared his bed on occasion, and loved him to distraction, never knowing that the man she adored was never in all those years willing to give her more than the slightest bit of his heart.

Giselle—the wrongs he had done to her were too many to mention, too many to list. It was his fate to love and be loved by angels, it seemed, and yet be unable to have any peace in life.

He held out little hope for peace in death.

He looked at Christine's grave again, something akin to reverence in his eyes, and gently laid the music box down on the marble.

A flash of something caught his eye, and when he looked to the other side of the tombstone, he saw there a red rose, tied with a black ribbon.

It had been slipped through the band of a sparkling diamond ring.

The ring that he had given Christine.

The hairs rose on the back of his neck, and he knew that Erik was in the graveyard.

"Come out, Erik." he called hoarsely, not certain why he wanted to see the man. Such tactics were too reminiscent of Erik's days as the opera ghost, and it unnerved him greatly. He must see that Erik was still a man, and not yet a ghost.

Erik stepped from behind a tall angel, dressed immaculately, as always. He glanced towards Christine's grave and saw the music box.

There was no sarcasm or mockery in his eyes, no smile on his face. He was old now, the uncovered half of his face tired and much aged. His eyes were old, too, as though years of living without Christine had taken their toll.

The two men looked at each other for a long moment. Raoul searched Erik's countenance, and he saw no anger there, no hatred, only peace.

When had Erik made peace with the past and Raoul had not?

Erik's eyes were fixed on Christine's tombstone, and he spoke suddenly, softly, so softly that Raoul nearly missed it entirely.

"Her song still makes the angels weep, but now they weep for joy that she is at long last with them."

It was a simple statement, but when Raoul searched Erik's face again, he saw only a man. Not a monster, not a beast, not a devil—only a man.

_Try to forgive…_

Perhaps it was easier to understand him now, now that Christine was gone, lost to both of them. Perhaps it was simply the loss of her presence that caused Raoul to look at his rival with new eyes.

Erik had loved Christine as he had, passionately, violently, beyond all reason. Raoul would have killed for her even as Erik had killed for her.

He was not so different from Erik. He had realized that long ago, but it had been with hatred in his soul for this man, hating himself for not being able to rise above him.

But now he looked, and he felt no hatred, only a sorrowful knowledge that this man had spent a lifetime with the love and happiness that Raoul had never found.

Raoul knew that he stood upon the threshold of death, and he looked back, and he saw a wasted life, wasted in bitterness and hatred over that which he could not change, shunning love that could have made his self-imposed darkness fade away, could have lifted the madness that had plagued him for so long.

He regretted so much, and could change nothing.

The eyes of the two men met for a moment, and Raoul thought that perhaps now, he could forgive Erik.

And then he saw sympathy in Erik's eyes, and he knew that Erik had forgiven him long ago.

Raoul closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, he was gone.

A few soft snowflakes began to fall.

_Wishing you were somehow here again…_

"I'll see you soon, Christine." he whispered, as the nurse turned the wheelchair to take him back to the waiting automobile.

"Perhaps tonight."

* * *

_La fin._


End file.
